


Franco and Elizabeth: Portraits

by Tessaray



Category: General Hospital
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2018-11-21 18:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 52,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessaray/pseuds/Tessaray
Summary: With Franco's help, Liz is experiencing an awakening which isn't necessarily welcome... by either of them. Liz POV throughout. Set between her tumble down the stairs and the return of Tom Baker, but doesn't follow canon. Deals frankly with sexuality and Franco's dark past.





	1. Chapter 1

Elizabeth stands awkwardly in Franco's studio, adjusting to an atmosphere that's so very… Franco. Colorful, peculiar, overwhelming, with hard edges, dark corners and just enough mystery to keep her off balance.

He'd all but dragged her here from a lunch at the Floating Rib that had turned… emotional. And now he's noisily digging around in a big metal shelving unit, engaged in a monologue on the topic of art-supply storage through the ages. She tries to listen, but it feels so strange to be standing here in broad daylight...

It's her first visit since their doomed date, since he was hauled off on murder charges and subsequently cleared with her help, since she worked up the courage to tell him about her past, since their first kiss and second and third... and drama after drama that has somehow embedded him so deeply in her life that she can't imagine it without him anymore — not having him to lean on, laugh with, help her make sense of her chaos…

_Franco_. Of all people.

Never in a million years would she have thought—

A cocktail of scent grabs her attention — linseed oil, turpentine, Dammar varnish — oil painting solvents. She hadn't noticed the smell during their date. Maybe it had been masked by her nervousness, or by wine and candles, or the oils he'd cooked with. No matter. It's surrounding her now, a potent trigger that threatens to sweep her away into memories...

"Toulouse-Lautrec!" Franco cries, startling her. He's bent over a table with his back to her, and she hears a strange, rhythmic tapping. "He had this bizarre habit — oh, you'll love this, stop me if you've heard it…"

She wants to focus, knows the anecdote will be odd and entertaining, like everything he says, but her mind spins her back to their lunch conversation and the nagging feeling that she'd revealed too much to him again.

He'd asked her a simple, very personal question: What had been the hardest thing to lose in the explosion that had reduced her home to rubble? She'd paused, could have answered with something obvious and true — the boys' artwork, of course, or their baby teeth, or the heirloom Christmas ornaments passed down from Gram's mother — but those things weren't what first sprang to her mind. And anyway, she knew that Franco wouldn't be interested in an itemized list... he'd want to go deeper.

And after everything he'd done for her, she'd been willing to oblige.

So honestly, and a little sheepishly, she'd admitted that the hardest thing to lose was the big, rotting cardboard box with the peeling duct tape that had lived in a corner of her attic. She'd lugged it up there herself and hadn't opened it in years... but she described the box and the old art supplies inside: the stubby pencils and oil colors dried to concrete in their tubes, brushes stiff with poorly-removed paint, yellowed sketchpads filled with things real and imagined... all pretty much useless, but they'd been  _hers —_ the person she'd once been, or at least had imagined herself to be, and maybe could be again... if she could only find the time or the space or the peace and quiet…

As long as that box existed, so did  _potential..._ and the loss of those old, useless things felt as final as a death. But it's okay, she told Franco and herself. She's a mother. She's a nurse. She has an identity in this world, and it's a good one, and it's enough…

He'd watched her eyes, listened quietly to her halting rationalizations, but he hadn't let her stop there. He'd pushed at the subtle bruise in her voice until she told him what she'd had no intention of telling him — that the real reason the box had meant so much was that it had contained an unfinished portrait, carefully wrapped in craft paper, now blown to smithereens.

A portrait of Emily.

Elizabeth can remember the day she'd made it so vividly... her very first portrait, with Emily, her best friend, as the guinea pig. As Elizabeth had dragged a big wingback chair around her old studio looking for the best light, they'd chattered and giggled about Nikolas and Lucky, about dreams and adventures in a future so vast and exciting they could hardly wait to get there. But when they'd finally settled down to work, it had been oddly awkward as they each took on new, unfamiliar roles — Elizabeth, the observer behind her easel... and Emily, the observed, perched stiffly in the chair, bathed in cool northern light. But gradually they'd relaxed and drifted into a shared, affectionate silence that grew to feel almost sacred, everything fading away but color and form and the soft light on Emily's face. Elizabeth had lost herself then, in the delicate features taking shape on the canvas, in the challenge of capturing more than a simple likeness... but an  _essence_  informed by years of friendship and love...

Too soon they'd had to stop and get on with other things, but there would be time to finish the portrait. There would always be more time... until there wasn't. But unfinished or not, what came out of that afternoon was a precious, intimate moment of connection captured in brushwork and oils. And now it's gone… just like Emily, just like Nikolas, and that innocent time, those naive dreams…

She'd told Franco all this, but kept her distance from it, spoke offhandedly like it was no big deal, apologized for sounding so pretentious — c _aptured in brushwork and oils, oh please_ — and it was only when she noticed how pale and stricken he looked that the depth of the loss hit her.

"That's a goddamned tragedy," he'd said.

"It was just a painting. No one was hurt in the explosion. That's the important thing," she'd responded quietly, reasonably, the way a good mother/nurse/grownup should… even as she'd turned away from him with tears in her eyes.

" _You_  were hurt," he'd said, and laid a gentle, tentative hand on her arm… and the tears had come then, in a flood. He'd made her cry, dammit — he always seems to make her feel more than she thinks she's ready for — and he'd let her cry until she was done, until she felt it might be possible to heal wounds she hadn't even known she still carried. Then he'd dropped money on the table and abruptly stood up.

"You're coming with me."

#

Elizabeth covers her ears against a shocking screech as Franco drags a heavy wooden easel across the concrete floor to the middle of the room. He positions it next to one that's already set up and moves to a table against the wall, piled high with what looks like garbage. He clicks on a stand-light, shifts it, plays with shadows…

"So yesterday I set up this still life," he says excitedly. "Found objects… this kind of urban-decay thing I've been exploring…"

"You've been dumpster diving?"

He stops at her tone, looks down at the pile.

"You hate it."

"No, no, it's your project, do what you want..."

But he comes back to her with a mischievous smile, angles the fresh easel slightly, checks the line of sight. "You're right-handed, right? So you'll look to your left."

She gapes at him. " _Me_? Franco, no, I—,"

"—Here." He produces a fresh canvas from nowhere and props it on the easel. "Next time you can prep your own. I obviously didn't have time to gesso it, but you can work on raw canvas and pretend you're an Abstract Expressionist!"

"You… did you just stretch this… for me? Is that what you were doing?"

"Sure. What did you think?"

"Franco, that's… thank you, but I'm… I'm not dressed for painting," she stammers, looking helplessly down at her skirt. "I don't have—,"

He thrusts a handful of blue fabric at her. "Here's an old shirt. You'll be fine. You might want to lose the heels."

She stands there dumbfounded. As usual, he's rushing in without consulting her, wanting so much to fix things, assuming he knows best… making her feel bulldozed.

She lays a firm hand on his arm. "Franco, this is ridiculous. I can't up and start  _painting_ again, just like that."

"Yeah. You can. You really can," he says in that irksome, imperious tone... the one he uses when she's doubting herself. He pulls a folded blanket from a shelf and drops it in front of her easel. She knows that he means for her to stand on it instead of the cold concrete floor... taking care of her, as usual.

Hesitantly, with petulant little grumbles, she pulls on and buttons the shirt that smells vaguely, comfortingly, like him. It's a soft, nearly threadbare denim, covered with clumps of dried paint, and so huge it falls halfway down her thighs... giving the impression, she realizes, that she's got nothing on underneath. His eyes scan her appreciatively, linger a bit too long on her legs... but she lets him look, tosses her head, rolls up the sleeves five turns, steps out of her shoes and onto the blanket… and suddenly she feels incredibly short next to him — tiny, fragile… vulnerable.

It's one of those increasingly rare, unwelcome moments when who Franco was — his violence and cruelty, the anguish he'd inflicted — comes rushing back to her in a hot wave of revulsion.

_Aiden, Jake, Cam..._

She snaps to her reflexive mental inventory of the boys, needs to see each one in turn in her mind's eye — where they are, what they're doing — before she can relax, reassured that they're safe. But she can never relax completely; there's always pressure in her chest, a low hum of anxiety that says they're  _never safe never safe_ … and this man is partially responsible for that…

She sways, swallows down the remnants of ancient hate, reminds herself forcefully, as she has a thousand times, that _this_  man is not  _that_  man. This man has been nothing but kind and supportive — an honest, unwavering friend when everyone else had turned their back on her after the Jake/Jason debacle. He may be presumptuous, inappropriate and socially awkward, a bit emotionally immature, but she understands — he's still getting used to life without the dark, twisted filter of his brain tumor, and he's got some catching up to do. If she's honest, it's a privilege to be invited along on his journey, to witness his struggle to be whole. Plus, he makes her laugh. He makes her feel  _not alone_ … and, as Jake has pointed out, he makes her happy.

She trusts him. She does.

Mostly.

She leans over, fumbles with the mast adjustment on the easel, but it's too tight. He loosens it, moves the shelf down until it's the right height for her, and smiles at her fondly, his light eyes sparkling with excitement. She smiles back, tension easing…

"Just like riding a bike," he says. "Oh!" He pivots suddenly, long hair sweeping his shoulders, and disappears into the corner, starts banging and rummaging. "I've been saving these for a special occasion," comes his muted voice. He reappears, and like a gambler with a royal flush, he presents to her a handful of beautiful, brand new paint brushes, with bristles the color of—

"Sable," he says. "Yours forever, to replace those crusty, blown-up brushes of yore."

"No… no, Franco, I know that brand. They cost a fortune."

"I got them when I  _had_  a fortune. We're only as good as our materials, you know. Go on."

She reaches out hesitantly, like he's offering her gold... she used to dream of owning these very brushes. She takes one, weighs the balance, strokes the belly over her open palm, tests the tip against her forefinger. He's watching her so intently that she feels a blush rise.

"On one condition," she says.

He lifts a brow.

"I only use them here."

He gives her a stunned look, laced with wonder and gratitude.

"Deal," he says softly.

##

Elizabeth stands awkwardly for the second time that day, not quite remembering how to prep the materials Franco has laid out on the utility table next to her easel. There was a time she could have done this in her sleep, but now her muscle memory lies in packing lunches and inserting IV needles. So she watches him do what he's done thousands of times, admiring his practiced ease as he selects tubes of oil paint from an ancient wooden box and squeezes dabs onto his varnished, well-worn palette. The colors are so pure and vivid that their names appear in her mind like the names of beloved old friends: Cerulean Blue, Burnt Umber, Cadmium Red, Yellow Ochre…

With large, graceful hands he carefully wipes the mouth of each tube with a clean rag before recapping it, rolling the bottom up like a tube of toothpaste and replacing it in its proper slot in his paintbox. So ritualistic, so  _reverent... s_ o unlike Elizabeth, who used to toss things around, leave tubes uncapped and neglected in her eagerness to get to the actual work. But watching him and his focused care, a word pops into her mind that makes her pulse quicken…

_Foreplay..._

A picture flashes — of those hands on her body, seeing to her needs with that same patient skill...

She swallows, drops her eyes, busies herself with prepping her palette as he's doing. He glances over and slows down, becomes more methodical in laying out his colors, filling dented tin cups with his special solvents, arranging his materials for ease of access and selecting his clean, well-tended brushes from a coffee can. He mixes a pile of neutral gray, then, without waiting for her, he attacks his canvas with sure strokes. She appreciates that he's not explaining things, not treating her like a novice, is giving her space and respect…

He's well into his block-in when he stops and glances over at the few noncommittal marks she's made on her canvas.

"You're not feeling this, are you?"

"It's… it's  _garbage_ , Franco."

"Give yourself time, Elizabeth, you'll — oh, you mean the still life?"

She's eyeing the contents of the table with distaste. "What's in there, exactly?"

"It's… oh, what's in there...," he vaguely waves his brush. "You know... urban detritus, discarded bric-a-brac, this and that…"

"It's… don't you smell that? And what is that thing… is that a prosthetic leg?"

He sets his palette down on the table beside him and scratches his head. "Yeah, you're right. First time back in the saddle, you want something inspiring, don't you. Something beautiful."

She wrinkles her nose. "Just something less—"

"—Bio-hazard-y. I get it. Less vermin magnet-y. Tell you what... I'll dismantle this and you can—,"

"—No. Franco, no, keep it. You were getting into it, you should keep working." She sets down her own palette with a frown, starts to unbutton the soft blue smock. "I'm not really up for this today, anyway. I think I'll—"

And then he's in front of her, eyes wide, his hands wrapping around hers.

"You don't have to go," he says a bit breathlessly. "You said we had all afternoon."

She suddenly feels old, worn out. And so disappointed.

"What's going on, Elizabeth?"

"It's just… Franco, I appreciate everything you're trying to do here. I do. It's all just so… foreign. It's not me anymore, you know?"

"Okay." He takes her elbow, leads her over to the small kitchen table and guides her into a chair. "Okay. I get it. I pressured you. I did. I basically dragged you here. But there's no goal, Elizabeth. No right or wrong. This is just about getting your feet wet again. I know you want it to be the way it was… easy, comfortable, like pulling on an old pair of jeans, but—"

"—That don't fit anymore…"

"But maybe that's good!" he says, squatting before her, soft, concerned eyes level with hers. "Maybe they're out of style now, anyway. You don't want to be walking around in acid washed denim or, God forbid,  _mom_  jeans, do you? Maybe there are different jeans out there for you, way cooler jeans, with awesome stains and strategic slashes… and all I'm saying, Elizabeth, is that if you quit, you'll never know what kind of jeans are the perfect fit for you now."

"Is this your idea of a pep talk?"

"Yeah, like it?" he says with a lopsided smile. "Look, we've been at this for, what, fifteen minutes? Some days I can barely tie my shoes in fifteen minutes, so give yourself a chance. You don't dig that still life, we'll do something else, whatever you want. What do you say?"

She looks at his bright, earnest face and feels a slight stirring of excitement.

"Well... maybe if I ease into it. Do you have a pencil and paper?"

"Do I have a pencil! What kind of starving artist would I be without a pencil?!" He leaps up, dashes to a tall cabinet. She cringes at the hideous metallic squeal as he yanks open a drawer. He digs around, calling out... "I got your H family, your B family, their little bastard kid the HB, I got an F, whatever the hell that is, I got wood — yikes, that didn't come out right — I got mechanicals... and oh, I got charcoal! You want charcoal?"

And then he's pawing through a stack of drawing pads piled high on the metal shelf. "I got white, toned, cold-press, hot-press, rag, acid-free, you name it… shout out when you hear it..."

In spite of herself, Elizabeth giggles like a kid in a candy store.

_**To be continued...** _


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeth's fingers are black within minutes. She'd forgotten how messy soft charcoal is, how fun it is to smear, how it squeaks over the smooth paper…

Franco has arranged a still life on the kitchen table for her: a wine glass, a candle and his smiley-face cup containing the single antique rose he'd given her on their first date. Miraculously, it's not completely dead yet.

"Better than garbage?" he says, dropping into the chair opposite her.

She just grunts as she struggles to draw the rose's drooping petals.

"Start by laying down a base tone," he says. "Don't go for individual—,"

He stops when she shoots him a look.

"I'll shut up," he mock-pouts and slides down in his chair, folding his arms over his chest.

But she decides to take his advice, scratches the charcoal back and forth over the paper and smudges the mass with the side of her hand to create a uniform tone. As she cocks her head to examine the result, she feels distinctly on display, like the few times years ago when she tried to paint outside in the park and attracted a crowd…

She looks up to find him studying her.

"Franco... why don't you draw, too?"

"I'm drawing in my head," he says and she watches his eyes move slowly, deliberately over her brow, her cheeks, and pause to linger on her lips. On the surface, it's a detached, professional assessment, but just underneath she senses a heat and hunger in that gaze that makes her flush.

"Stop that," she says, breathlessly. "You're making me nervous."

He slowly shakes his head. "You're almost too beautiful. It's too much to take in... like a night sky full of stars. You know, you stick your tongue out when you draw."

"I do not." She quickly snaps her tongue back into her mouth and feels her blush deepen at his outsized compliment.

"Sorry, my mistake," he teases. He leans forward, props his elbows on the table, drops his face between fisted hands. He's still watching her, but is no longer  _studying_  her; the difference is palpable, like a bare lightbulb going dark. Still, it's too much.

"So... do you really enjoy painting garbage?" she says to distract them both.

"Hmmm. Yeah... yeah, I don't know. I still troll alleys… but it's mostly habit. I used to feel like… like a shadow, merging with all the other shadows and… well… anyway. Anyway." He sits back again, scrubs a palm over his goatee. "It's what people expect from a  _Franco,_ right? Darkness, dread, mayhem..."

She looks up at this inadvertent crack in his façade. He usually shows her so little… only what he seems to want her to see.

"A shadow?"

He waves a hand. "PTR. Pre-tumor removal. Not important."

She catches his eye briefly before he looks away. It occurs to her that their friendship has been almost exclusively about  _her_  dramas and intrigues… and though he's been rock-solid throughout, she has a sudden impression of a cartoon super-hero who never takes off his cape…

"I don't know anything about you, do I? Not really…"

His face softens… melting her remaining defenses just a little bit more…

"You know everything you need to know, Elizabeth," he says, leaning in, a hand rising to cover his heart. "You know you can trust me, right? You know I'm here for you, that I'll protect you and your boys in whatever way I can. You know I'll never hurt you."

She nods. "Yes. I do know that." And she does. Mostly.

"Then that's everything. Right?"

She nods again, mesmerized by those tender, expressive eyes, by the intimate tone that seems reserved just for her…

"And the rest will come in time." His full, sensuous lips curve into a smile, his whiskers catch the afternoon light, sparking like tiny flames…

"I'd like to draw you," she says dreamily, before she's even aware of an intention to speak. She clamps her mouth shut, bends quickly to her sketch pad and gets down to the serious business of smudging charcoal with her fingers. "You know, some other time."

"Yeah," he says softly, and she feels his gaze on her again like a wave of heat. "That smiley cup isn't gonna draw itself, now is it."

She bites her lip, decides to stay silent.

"But… why some other time, Elizabeth? Why not now?"

She swallows hard and casts around for a reason. "Because... because I can barely draw  _that_!" She waves a blackened finger at the simple round candle on the table. "There's no way I can draw a  _face_."

"Didn't we just have a whole conversation about jeans?" He gets to his feet, picks up a chunk of charcoal, takes the pad from her and extends his hand. "Come on."

"Now what?"

"Well, I'm not gonna sit in that rickety old kitchen chair when I have a plush, comfy one over here." He drops his hand when she doesn't take it, crosses to her easel, swaps her canvas for the sketch pad. "I'm an excellent model, believe it or not. Barely move at all. That's what happens when you have a fascinating inner life. Now  _you_ ," he says, screeching the easel around toward a spray-painted chair on a low platform opposite the window. "You're probably jumpy as a cat."

She stands up and wipes her hands on the smock, thoroughly aware she's being teased.

"Are you saying I have no inner life, Franco?"

"You don't have time for one. Kids. Job. Responsibilities…"

"I'll have you know I can daydream with the best of them," she says, playfully jutting out her chin. "Beaches in the Caribbean, nights in Paris…"

"No, I'm not talking about daydreams." He steps up onto the platform, turns and drops heavily into the chair. "I'm talking about sinking deep. Watching the insane internal circus play out around you…"

He holds up the chunk of charcoal, offering, silently asking her to take it, to be brave. She hesitates, breathless, feeling on the edge of a precipice... then she crosses to him, the concrete ice cold under her bare feet.

"Don't forget to stand on your blanket," he says softly, as though reading her mind, her body...

Elizabeth takes the charcoal from his upraised hand. Their fingers brush in a buzz of electricity that makes her jerk away and quickly clear her throat to stifle a curse. Her attraction to him is a powerful thing and growing by the day... but she isn't ready to let him to see. It would feel like giving him a victory she's not quite sure he deserves. She draws a subtle, steadying breath, feels his eyes on her as she slides her makeshift mat in front of her repositioned easel and steps up.

"You  _would_  have a circus in that head of yours," she says with deliberate poise. "I have a—"

"—Let me guess." He stretches his neck, rolls his shoulders and gestures grandly as he speaks. "A sparkling river, flowing gently to the sea. No, no, a field of wildflowers swaying in a warm breeze, with butterflies alighting to sip—"

"—Oh,  _please_ ," she laughs. "Fine. I won't tell you then."

He smiles hugely, shifts around until he's settled, arms on the armrests, feet flat on the floor. "There are definitely kittens in there, though. Don't even try to tell me there aren't kittens."

She huffs, flips to a clean sheet on the drawing pad and takes in his pose. The chair is about four feet away, elevated, angled to give her a three-quarter view of his face, close enough that she can make out every detail in the warm afternoon light.

"You know," she says. "I'm not as sweet as you seem to think I am."

"Yeah, you are. But you've been so busy trying to survive you've lost sight of it."

She's taken aback, pleased, a bit humbled, yet mostly annoyed by this, the latest in a series of grand pronouncements. "What makes you so sure you're right all the time?"

"Shhhh, the circus is starting," he murmurs, eyes fixed on a spot on the far wall. "Here come the elephants…"

##

Elizabeth is tentative with the charcoal at first, unwilling to commit to hard lines, so she makes sketchy, weak little ones that signify nothing. Faces used to be so easy for her, reducible to planes and proportions... but it's been far too long, she's forgotten everything and it's no damn use. In frustration she stomps, tosses the charcoal on the tray and sigh-whines exactly like Aiden does when he doesn't get his way. She looks up at Franco's chuckle, sees him eyeing her sidelong, brow arched.

"Don't rely on formulas," he says without moving his lips. "Look at what's in front of you."

Another one of his commandments and it rankles, so she pouts, resists... until with a jolt it occurs to her what the actual problem is...

All this time, she hasn't wanted to really  _see_  him... not in any deep, sustained way, not without prejudice. He's right, she's been relying on formulas — how many good deeds equal a shot at redemption, how much contrition earns forgiveness. And despite everything he's done for her, for Jake, every positive thing he's proven himself to be, she's been keeping score, determined to cling to her doubts and resentments until he reaches some magic threshold of worthiness.

And in the meantime, she's been punishing him.

"Just let go, Elizabeth," he whispers.

_Let go._

And before she knows she's moved, she finds herself stepping onto the platform with him, tears welling in her eyes. She reaches out and tentatively tucks a silky lock of hair behind his ear. "There, that's better," she says, voice thick, and lets her hand linger on his cheek. He looks up at her with such tender affection that she has no choice but to lean down and kiss him gently, feel his soft lips part... and though she could easily crawl into his lap and take this thing as far as it could possibly go, she straightens up and wipes her palms down her smock with a shaky sigh.

She's about to go back to her easel when he says, "Hey, Elizabeth." He raises his finger, shows her that it's dark with charcoal and lifts it to her face. He touches a tear she hadn't realized had fallen, and draws the dark mixture slowly down her cheek to her chin. "There, that's better," he whispers, echoing her words, and locks his eyes into hers as though demanding a reaction, as though daring her to wipe away the mark. But she doesn't. Her body is warm, the room hazy, and she's acutely aware of wetness blooming between her legs.

Because she knows intuitively what the mark signifies — he's just claimed her.

He scans her face, seems to see something that satisfies him. "Go on now," he murmurs, and it feels like a tongue kiss to her core. There's a change in his eyes, his tone... a deepening, a new confidence... and it sends her back to her easel with weak knees.

There's a change in her, too... an easing, a kind of...  _awakening_. She basks in it, lets the heat of it move through her body and resists labelling it or pondering its meaning. She picks up her charcoal, brings her eyes to rest on the beautiful man in front of her... and decides to just  _let go_.

**_To be continued…_ **


	3. Chapter 3

But, as with all great endeavors, thinking doesn't make it so.

Elizabeth is lost in a sensual haze. Everything feels new, vibrant, suffused with wonder and beauty. And Franco — self-possessed, expressionless, bathed in sun-warmed light, his eyes fixed on the far wall — Franco is responsible for this feeling...

The mark he made on her cheek is hot, and she fancies that it's some kind of magic spell, infused with his passion, his talent... that he's anointed her, initiated her into a secret lineage of great artists reaching back into the mists of time...

She knows that's absurd, but feels a strange fire burning deep inside her nonetheless, and it's very difficult to stay behind this easel when what she really wants is to be rolling around naked on the floor with him, being mastered by him,  _letting go_...

A rational thought penetrates her irrational fog — if she really were letting go, as she had decided to do, wouldn't she just  _do_  it? What does  _letting go_  really look like, anyway?

And how many others has he anointed with that mark of his? How many women, how many men? Will one of them come strolling into town someday, reignite a long-suppressed passion in him and lure him back to New York or Paris or LA, leaving her dumped and humiliated yet again? What is here for him, anyway? He was the star of the international art world, and now he's reduced to  _this_  — sitting in an ugly chair in a third rate city, posing for some nurse who's lost her mojo...

She tosses the charcoal onto the tray with a disgusted sigh.

"Did I move...?" he says, remaining motionless.

She fists her hands on her hips. "What are you even  _doing_  here?"

"Being a bad model, apparently."

"I'm serious!"

"Okay now, what's going on in that head of yours? Are the kittens roughhousing?"

"Not a kitten in sight, Franco. I mean, aren't you  _bored_  here? Aren't you frustrated that you're stuck in this... this  _backwater_ —"

"—I've never been happier, Elizabeth."

"But how is that even  _possible_?!"

He laughs but keeps the pose, his eyes sliding sideways to find her. "Well... for one thing, without the tumor, I feel... clear...  _real,_ for the first time in my life, if that makes any sense _._  I know what kind of person I want to be and I've found a job where I think I'm actually helping people instead of hurting them. But most importantly,  _you're_  here, Elizabeth, and I think we're moving toward something really special. All of that is happening in this backwater. I'm not in any hurry to leave."

 _Maybe not right now_ , she mutters under her breath. Her unwelcome sulk isn't in any hurry to leave either... until she notices something in his face, a genuine quality she can't quite identify, but it's the essence of who she  _feels_  him to be. It jolts her from her funk and she grabs up the charcoal, needs to capture this while it's fresh... and the way his hair is falling across his forehead, making a beautiful curved shadow that echoes the curve of his cheek, and his tender eyes, the way his bottom lip is catching the light...

And as she focuses on him, a knot gradually loosens inside her, her crazy inner monologue shuts the hell up, and it just starts to  _happen_  — the charcoal moves effortlessly over the page, shapes appear exactly as she intends, her fingertips blend tones with an intuition all their own. There's no more struggle, just a flow that's as natural to her as breathing. She laughs — stunned, delighted.

"Franco, it's working!"

She looks up to see a huge smile spreading over his face and it stays there as he laughs right along with her... so warm, so supportive... and she feels  _known_  right down to her toes.

Their smiles slowly fade, and the mood evolves into something more... complicated, as neither seems to want to break eye contact. It's a long moment of connection, growing deeper, more intense, fanning that strange fire banked inside her until at last he says:

"I like that you're drawing me, Elizabeth." It's soft, low... like a confession. "I like feeling your eyes on me."

She looks away quickly, cheeks burning. No one else has ever had the power to make her blush so thoroughly.

"Do you want to get back to it?" he says, and though she's examining the floor, she can hear the smile in his voice. She nods, straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin to see that he's resumed staring at the spot on the far wall, his face expressionless. She breathes deeply to steady herself, begins studying him... and gradually realizes that he's not expressionless at all — his features are shifting like a kaleidoscope as he watches that internal circus of his.

 _What's going on in there_ , she wants to know...  _Who are you?_...

And if only one thing comes out of today, it's this: She knows she will never get tired of looking at that face.

They're quiet then, the only sound the scratching of charcoal. True to his word, Franco barely moves as she works, doesn't ask for a break even as the afternoon slouches toward sunset, and he seems to grow strangely clearer to her, even more vivid as the shadows deepen. She drifts into a sort of reverie, her hand moving confidently, eyes darting from model to page, page to model... and slowly his face begins to emerge before her, an actual likeness of high cheekbones, flowing hair, intelligent eyes, goatee framing full, soft lips...

She pauses, steps back from the easel to survey her work... and frowns. It's just features... it's not  _him_. Somehow, in her quest for accuracy, she lost that essence she'd wanted to capture. She looks at him quickly, watches the play of micro-expressions, but it's not there anymore...  _he's_  not there.

His words appear in her mind:

 _I still troll alleys..._   _like a shadow, merging with all the other shadows…_

She answers silently, vehemently:  _No, you're emerging_ from _the shadows and into the light, with me…_

And suddenly it's vital to her that he sees exactly  _that_  when he looks at her drawing — he needs to see what she sees. She moves back to the easel with a renewed sense of purpose.

"Franco, I need you to look at me," she says.

He stirs, seems startled, but his eyes slide toward her, land on her... and there it is — a tenderness so naked and intimate that a thrill ripples through her. She has to chase it, to bring this feeling to life beneath her fingertips in the shaping of shadows, the lifting of lights... softening, deepening his mouth and eyes... his eyes on  _her_...

Seconds pass... or minutes... or hours... her breath coming hard and fast as a wild, feverish energy envelops and lifts her out of herself. She recognizes this place — used to know it intimately and thought it would never open to her again, this place of losing oneself — and she has to stay here because she hasn't quite got him yet, can't stop working until she  _gets_  him... and all that's real is energy and a thousand unconscious choices and the bond tethering her to Franco across this odd, chaotic space of his, nourishing her, keeping her going...

And it's his voice behind her that slams her back into her body, leaving her shuddering, vibrating...

"God, you're so beautiful," he whispers, breath like liquid fire in her ear, speaking words that barely register. "I know where you are — the flow, the high. No time, no space, just vision and motion and will..."

She's floating between worlds, electrified by his nearness. Part of her resents his intrusion, but the strange fire inside is leaping high...

"It was getting intense," he continues. "You didn't answer when I spoke to you. Are you okay?"

She nods, makes a shivery sound that means  _yes_.

"Do you want to keep going?"

"It's not finished...," she murmurs, still floating, hasn't quite made landfall yet. His heat is close and she can smell his skin... he's solid and strong and he  _understands_...

"Okay. Your call." He takes a step toward the platform to resume the pose, but she stops him with a hand on his hip and draws him around behind her again.

"I don't need you to model anymore," she says and melts back against him. "I see you." She feels him stiffen and it wakes her up a bit. She doesn't know why she's doing this, just that she has no choice. Is  _this_  letting go...?

He doesn't respond to her immediately, just lets her rest there, lets her drop her head back onto his chest...

"What do you want, Elizabeth...," he whispers.

"I want to keep drawing," she says, and sways her hips so he can be in no doubt that she's not just resting. "But you have to promise not to look."

He presses in behind her, closing what little space still exists between them. His right hand engulfs hers, raises it, guides it to the paper, and presses. "So draw," he says, so deep she feels it between her legs. "And don't stop drawing, no matter what I do."

She sighs and feels his mark on her cheek, warm and fresh. His magic spell. She'd forgotten all about it.

_**To be continued...** _


	4. Chapter 4

A spell — that's what this is. A spell woven from surging creativity and heightened senses and the other-worldly atmosphere of this place. Why else would Elizabeth be so eager to let Franco do whatever he has in mind? They've barely even kissed...

The thought almost makes her laugh, even as she floats in liquid heat. They're adults... progressing through the bases is so old-fashioned...

And yet... theirs has felt exactly like an old-fashioned romance. He's come to her rescue countless times, he's courted her as patiently and tenderly as any woman has ever been courted, and he's been nothing but a gentleman throughout...

And like a gentleman, he's not pressing his advantage, even now. In fact, to her slight disappointment, he's not doing anything... just covering her hand lightly with his as she continues working on his portrait, his intimate expression alive in her mind's eye, warming her every bit as much as his body behind her. His hand on hers isn't guiding her, it's just  _present_... and it makes her think of the future... of works of art they could create together...

But gradually he molds his body to hers, leans down and presses his right cheek gently to her left. She glances over and sees that his eyes are closed; he's not looking at the drawing, as she'd requested. He seems to be absorbing her, breathing her in... and though he's motionless, she senses a focused intensity, a powerful restraint that makes her breath quicken.

And finally he slides his hand down to her wrist, slowly encircling it, so tiny in his grasp. He squeezes, lingers possessively, then drifts his fingertips along her inner forearm, delicate as a whisper... then up again, then down, like he's trying to memorize the texture of her skin. It feels so incredibly good to Elizabeth, streaks of sweet fire that penetrate to her core. She doesn't remember ever being so receptive, so high with anticipation, and she's struck by how large his fingers are, how dark on her white complexion...

He continues up her arm, caresses the wildly sensitive spot inside her elbow until she gasps, and when he reaches the rolled shirt sleeve at her bicep, he slides his hand to the back of her neck and lifts her hair. She shivers at the feel of his lips there, brushing sensually on a cushion of his liquid-warm breath. He's taking his time, moving like honey, and at the first touch of his tongue on her throat she shudders, reflexively reaches up, weaves her left hand into his silken hair and pulls him closer...

"Keep drawing," he murmurs. "If you stop, I stop." She hadn't realized she'd stopped. She starts again, makes some inconsequential marks, barely aware of anything in the world but his mouth on her... and then her smock is being unbuttoned and his hand is sliding inside to lie flat on her belly. He pulls her gently back against him, and when she feels his heat, his arousal, she presses too hard with the charcoal and drags it over the page with a hideous screech. They both flinch and make tense, breathless sounds that could be laughter, could be something much deeper...

But the spell has been broken, and the pause that follows feels so agonizing that she says, without quite meaning it, "You can look now, if you want to." The second it's out of her mouth, she realizes how badly she wants his approval. She holds her breath and watches his eyes open and widen. His body eases behind her and he says, with a kind of startled wonder, "Is that really how you see me?"

"Yes, Franco. I wanted—" she starts to elaborate, but breaks off... because there's no need. He gasps, drops his head into the crook of her neck and wraps his arms around her with so much emotion she thinks he might cry.

Not so long ago, she was convinced he didn't deserve this — not mercy, not forgiveness... certainly not love. Now she feels her own tears welling, and slips her hand from his hair to gently cup his cheek. He leans into her touch. It takes several beats, but he steadies himself, cradles her throat in his large hand, turns her face up to his with his thumb and kisses her tenderly, mouth lingering, breath warming her lips. He pulls away and presses his brow to hers as though wanting to join his mind with hers... and she returns the pressure, longing to connect, to  _know_  him.

He kisses her again, deeply, hungry, his hand tightening on her throat with a pressure that's dangerous and thrilling. Even standing on the thick blanket, Elizabeth barely reaches his shoulders, and she's feels tiny, fragile. If he wanted to hurt her he could, so easily... but he said he never would. And she believes him.

With a rough urgency, he slides his hand inside her blouse and palms the curves of her breasts as her body rises up like a slow, shivering wave to meet him. His scent drifts from his skin and silky hair and gathers around her like a warm mist, and she feels hypnotized, her eyes slipping closed…

She's distantly amazed by how malleable she is, how easily she's giving herself to him... and both of his hands are moving over the bare skin of her torso, between and around her breasts, teasing her, never quite touching, trailing down her flat stomach to dip inside the waistband of her skirt, her panties... spreading heat, making her knees buckle, making her so wet and ready for him…

And then his hands are gone, his body just a ghost near hers, and she hears her own tiny wail.

"You stop, I stop," he says.

She snaps to, sees that her drawing hand is suspended in mid-air, touching nothing. Through a frustrated, sensual haze, a face swims into focus in front of her, seizing her attention — the image looking back at her from the easel is Franco. It really is  _him_ , the way she sees him, the way he makes her feel... but it just needs a few tiny adjustments... and when she returns to the page, he returns to her body ravenously, his hands and mouth taking now more than giving...

And as she works the darks and lights, she's somehow able to divide her attention between the two Francos — the one she's bringing to life beneath her fingertips and the one whose hair is spilling over her shoulder as his teeth rake her bared throat, whose own fingertips are finally, mercifully, touching her nipples through her barely-there bra...

He suddenly splays his hand over her stomach and pulls her back hard against him, lifting her off her feet as his beautiful likeness watches from the page...

"Are you wet?" His voice is deep, gruff, as though he hasn't been breathing. The crudeness of the question shocks her... but she gasps:

"Yes."

"Spread your legs for me, Elizabeth."

Her body erupts in tiny convulsions. Plunged into a dream-like passivity, she does as he says,  _needs_  to... and instantly his huge hand is there, hot under her skirt, kneading her bare thigh... then higher, thumb sweeping her vulva through her panties as he groans low in her ear...

He's inside her bra now, too, cupping her breast, squeezing, pinching her nipple as he bites down possessively on her neck, making her drop her head to the side, straining for more. And whenever she goes weak and her arm falls away from the page, he gently commands her to  _keep drawing..._ and she does, manages to find the will and stamina even as everything in her yearns toward him.

A vague thought forms:  _How many other people has he done this to...?_  And it stirs her, sinks her deep into the erotic mystery of this man devouring her with his mouth and hands... so far beyond her in experience.

_What has he done, who has he done it with...?_

When his fingers slip inside her panties, she yelps and buckles, but he's holding her tightly and there's nowhere to go. He sighs deeply as he touches her, suddenly tender, reverent, all urgency gone... and a howl of frustration rises in her throat.  _No_ , she doesn't want that — she wants his passion, wants to be knocked from her pedestal and treated like the others. She's not sweet, she's not precious, and at the risk of disillusioning him, she bears down hard on his hand... and grinds.

And he gets it. He makes an almost inhuman sound and his energy changes utterly as he throws off all pretense of restraint. He's everywhere then, the strength and size of him undeniable as he pushes his hand hard into her pussy and rubs mercilessly, fingers plunging, hitting spots that force wild, frenzied cries from her throat. She needs this so badly, in a way that feels shameful and ancient and vital... she's needed this  _forever_ , and she's getting closer, charcoal hand skipping erratically over the page because he's commanding her to  _keep drawing,_ even now _._  His image watches steadily from the page, shadow and light and erotic beauty, and she's on the edge, whimpering, desperately riding his hand... but her release keeps veering away at the last second. Her feet are barely touching the floor now — he's holding her up with a strong arm wrapped around her waist, his voice so deep in her ear that it echoes inside her...  _Let go, Elizabeth...let go..._  and with an agonized wail she realizes she can't let go... that whatever she's chasing is long gone, it's not  _her_  anymore and she wants to tell him to stop, don't bother, it's no use...

But then she's reeling in thin air because he's gone, and she's stumbling, with no idea who she is or how she got here. But no, Franco is still there, moving her aside onto cold concrete, bending, and there's a snap and a settling of fabric, and she's being lifted and laid gently onto the blanket. Her panties are soon gone, her thighs are being shouldered wide apart and then a shock of the most exquisite pleasure — his soft, hot mouth, devouring her, his huge hands cupping her bottom, his silken hair flowing over her skin like water — and he's  _growling_ , sending vibrations through her that are beginning to shake her apart. And as she clutches the chunk of charcoal in her fist all she can think is that if she can just squeeze hard enough, maybe it will become a diamond...

No sooner does the odd thought occur then his hungry mouth takes her where her own will couldn't... and she erupts in a blistering orgasm that shreds her throat with cries, forces her hips high to grind against him, reaching for more and more of that miraculous tongue until it's all too much, and she has to retreat, push him far away with shuddering gasps...

She floats then, bonelessly, feeling like a leaf in a breeze, circling, circling in mid-air before gradually coming to land on the welcoming earth...

The sharp smell of turpentine hits her first. Then she notices the weight of the blanket covering her. Franco is sitting cross-legged on the floor nearby, bathed in sunset rose, watching her, a hand resting lightly on her thigh.

"Hi," he says with a soft smile.

"Hi." It comes out as a rasp. She can't meet his eyes, blushes from head to toe and even though she's clothed, she drops the charcoal and reflexively clutches the blanket to her chest as she sits up.

"You okay?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" She juts out her chin and smoothes her hair down with an unsteady hand, suddenly seething with resentment and not knowing why.

He watches with a furrowed brow as she wobbles to her feet and adjusts her clothes before letting the blanket fall to the floor. "Well, it's getting late," she says, tight as a drum.

He looks wounded at first... then he rocks back, wraps his arms around his upraised knees, face awash with that all-knowing expression that makes her crazy.

 _"What?"_  she demands.

He shakes his head slowly. "Nothing."

_"WHAT?!"_

He looks at her evenly. "Moms don't do that."

"Moms don't do what?" she says through gritted teeth.

He hesitates, seems to weigh his words, but says them anyway. "Moms don't go to reformed psycho-killers' studios unchaperoned in the middle of the day. Moms don't lose themselves in art-making. Moms don't come so hard they scream."

She flinches like she's been hit. "Fuck you, Franco."

"Tell me I'm wrong."

She gapes at him, opens her mouth to let loose a tirade... but nothing comes out. Because he's not wrong. And he's so fucking gorgeous she's aching to finish what they started...

_Moms don't do that..._

_Responsible people don't do that. Elizabeth Imogene Webber does not do that..._

And just like that, she understands the source of her resentment. She takes a deep breath and looks at him, sees him with utter clarity... where he would take her — where he's already begun to take her — and who she could so easily become with him. The amazing, disastrous, unbearable  _potential_ of it all...

A stabbing pain radiates from her heart out to her limbs until she feels like she might collapse.

"I'm sorry, Franco," she gasps, grief-stricken by what she's about to say. "I can't do this."

His face freezes. "Do... what?"

"This. All this. I can't be this person."

He slowly pushes to his feet, eyes locked on her face, and stands uncertainly for a moment before taking her arm. "I want to show you something." He guides her to a mirror on the wall, places her front and center and himself behind her, hands on her shoulders. He says nothing, but she follows his eyes to the vivid charcoal mark on her cheek. It's the first time she's seen it and it startles her. The making of it had aroused her so deeply, seemed to connect her to him and open her in a primitive, profound way. But now it's just a sooty stain on the white of her skin. Ugly and wrong... yet real.

"You  _are_  this person, Elizabeth," Franco says gently. "Whether you like it or not. You can ignore it or pretend if you want. You can go back to sleep. But you'll never really be  _alive_  until you accept it."

In her mind's eye, she sees that old rotting box in the attic, the contents frozen in time like flies in amber... and Emily's portrait. In all those years, she never once opened that box. And there's a reason...

_Aiden, Jake, Cam..._

She finds Franco's eyes in the mirror and feels so much sorrow she can barely get the words out. "I didn't say I'm  _not_  this person, Franco. I said I  _can't_  be."

He turns her around to face him. His lips are moving with unvoiced thoughts and fear is vivid in his eyes.

"Okay. I get it," he says with a trembling smile. "This was too much too soon. It's my fault. Look, we don't ever have to come here again. I'll burn the place to the ground if that will—"

"—Shhh, Franco, stop. Please." She lays a palm flat on his chest, feels his heart pounding. "Please understand me. Everything you are, everything you're offering... I want it. I do. But...," she drops her hand, shakes her head and moves away, can't bear to be so close to him, to feel his heat, smell her scent on him...

He seems to shrink, stuffs his hands in his pockets and slowly backs up. "You just  _can't_...,"

She raises her chin, works to steady her voice. "Not and be the person I need to be for the life I've built. I can't just run off and be twenty-years-old again."

He regards her with those deep, kind eyes that somehow always see too much. He's solemn, and she knows he's hearing her, taking her seriously, respecting her viewpoint. Few men have done that... and she aches with an acute, no-longer-deniable love for him.

Even so, when he starts to move carefully toward her again, hands up and reaching, she stiffens.

He stops at her reaction, arms falling heavily to his sides. "What I think, Elizabeth," he says tentatively. "Is that you've been thrown for a loop. I think that what happened here today frightened you, made you feel out of control... and I think you're seeing an either/or situation where none exists. I'm not asking you to ditch your life and move with me to Red Hook... but you  _can_  expand your idea of yourself, just a little bit. I do it every day."

He's so reasonable, makes so much sense. She's drowning in his voice, and in his earnest, imploring eyes the color of new leaves in spring. It would be so easy to say,  _Okay, yes, let's see where this leads_. But there's a knot of terror in her belly, her body is humming with sensations of him, and she knows that just a little bit will never be enough.

He's much more dangerous than she ever could have predicted.

"Please, Franco... I'm so sorry. I just... I can't be with you." She raises a trembling arm and, as he watches with stricken eyes, she wipes the mark from her cheek with the back of her hand.

He searches her face, and she makes sure that all he sees there is resolve. He nods heavily, sags and turns away... and she realizes with a desperate sense of loss that he's accepting her decision... he's not going to fight her. And she's so grateful she could weep, because she's not at all sure she's doing the right thing.

She watches him climb onto the platform, drop into the chair and stare blankly out the window.

She sways, feels dizzy, wants to go to him... but instead she moves robotically across the cold concrete to her easel, finds her panties buried in the blanket, pushes away the heat of memory as she slips them on, then does the same with her shoes. She shrugs out of his borrowed shirt and drapes it over the back of the kitchen chair, smoothing her hands over the clumps of old paint.

The sable brush is drying on her abandoned palette; she looks at it with a pang of regret, considers cleaning it, but no doubt he'll take care of it — carefully, patiently, making it as good as new — and lingering here would only be cruel. She catches a glimpse of her drawing on the easel — an impassioned rendering of a dark, complex man. She has an impulse to take it with her, but it would only haunt her with what might have been. Still, she reaches into her purse without thinking, grabs her cellphone and snaps a picture of it.

Her hand is on the doorknob when she hears his voice.

"Whatever you need, whenever you need it... I'll always be here for you, Elizabeth."

She manages to make it to the elevator before grief overwhelms her.

_**To be continued...** _


	5. Chapter 5

Elizabeth stands at the nurses' station, staring down at a medical chart covered with gray gibberish. Her morning shift has barely begun and already she's restless, distracted. Again. She's been on autopilot for the past week, doing what is required of her with her usual competence, but her heart just isn't in it.

Franco has been little more than a phantom. She's glimpsed him rounding corners or disappearing into the elevator, she's heard his low, disembodied voice coming from behind the closed door of the art therapy room as she's hurried past, been hyper-aware of any mention of his name. But there's been no interaction between them at all.

It's just a mourning period, she knows. Her grief and uncertainty were overwhelming at first, but they've gradually faded...and she can keep them at bay as long as she doesn't think about how Franco is feeling, how she hurt and betrayed him. Yes, this will pass. And then they'll each move on, and be able to slip into a cordial, collegial relationship. She's been here before.

It's for the best.

Leaving his studio was like waking from a dream — a wet, fevered dream — but a dream nonetheless. She'd hugged the boys a little tighter when she'd picked them up that evening, lingered in each of their rooms after she'd put them to bed, thinking,  _this is real... this is important... this is who I am..._

Franco had said that she saw an either/or situation where none exists... but it does exist. She's made so many mistakes trying to recapture some mythic past, has hurt so many people, presented so many fathers to these little boys, only to have them yanked away due to her own short-sighted, selfish choices. She won't destroy what she's quite literally built from the ashes. She won't be hurt again, or allow these children to be hurt... and the hurt springs from  _wanting_... and inevitably  _losing_...

Why should this time be any different?

And yet she returns to Franco's portrait on her phone again and again with a growing compulsion. At first she pretended it was to study the work itself, judge its merits as a drawing... and she did feel a tinge of pride that after so many years, it wasn't half bad. All the features were where they belonged, anyway, and the proportions were right. And she captured more than just the likeness of her model... there was a personality. An essence.

Satisfied, she should have deleted it then, but she found herself reaching for it as she drank her morning coffee, or waited for Aiden at the bus stop, or on her breaks at the hospital. And she began taking it to bed with her... to lay on her side, hand bathed in blue light as she cradled it, spellbound by that face, searching beneath its obvious affection for something more elusive, something that would reassure her that this time really would be,  _could be_... different. And soon she would drift in memory to his studio, to this very image watching her from the page as the man himself did things to her body, evoking a frantic need she didn't know she was capable of... and then she would lie back and relive the sensation of his hands, of his exquisite, relentless tongue, and the blistering orgasm he tore from her...

And too soon she'd curse herself, snap the phone off and toss it on the nightstand... only to pick it up again when she would invariably awaken in the early hours before sunrise... restless, frustrated, crippled by doubt...

It's been a week. She should get rid of the damn picture. But she can't quite bring herself to press the delete key...

#

"Wow, is that  _Franco_? That's amazing!" Amy's voice over her shoulder startles her. Elizabeth had barely been aware of having pulled the phone from her pocket yet again, but there he is, the man himself, gazing up at her... and this time he seems to be laughing.

Amy snatches the phone away and holds it close to her face, fingers spreading over the screen to enlarge the image. "Wow, check out all the  _luuurve._ What I wouldn't give to have a guy look at me like that!"

Burning at the violation, Elizabeth tears the phone back from Amy, who just giggles. "Psycho or no, that boy is hot as hell."

Elizabeth scowls, waits until Amy is absorbed in some task before venturing a look back at her phone, at Franco's face filling the screen. Amy's a dolt, but she says what's on her mind... and she saw  _luuurve_ there. Elizabeth bends to the photo, searching again for that elusive reassurance... and yes, the soft intimacy of his expression could be mistaken for love. It could even  _be_  love. She remembers basking in the warmth of those eyes... and she thrills at the possible truth of it...

But she straightens up, angrily clicks the phone off and watches Franco's face disappear into blackness.

Many men have claimed to love her, and maybe they did... but they always loved something else more.

Why should this time be any different...

She shoves the phone into her pocket.

#

Five minutes later, Elizabeth is staring at the same chart again and it's making no more sense than it did before.

"Some people would find zat annoying."

She looks up to see Dr. Obrecht next to her, glaring down at the pen Elizabeth has been absent-mindedly tapping on the counter. Elizabeth snaps the chart shut and is about to turn away when Obrecht continues in a snide, imperious tone.

"It might interest you to know zat Franco has taken a personal day." She purses her lips and surveys Elizabeth with utter disdain. "What he wants mit such a scrawny little zing as you is beyond me... but  _das macht nichts_. You are to meet him at his studio." She pivots and strides off, heels clacking like gunfire.

"Oh, I am, am I?" Elizabeth calls after her, more flustered than annoyed.

"You haff ze day off," Obrecht snaps over her shoulder. "You're useless here, anyway. Don't dawdle."

"Why is  _everyone_  in my business?!" Elizabeth grumbles to no one in particular.

#

Curiosity. Guilt. Longing. It doesn't matter what brings Elizabeth to Franco's studio, unchaperoned, in the middle of the day... but here she is. Finally. On the way over, she'd repeatedly veered her car to a stop on the shoulder of the road, clutched the steering wheel and screamed, forced herself to breathe, changed her mind and changed it back. She knows that coming here will only confuse things, revive desires she's managing to tame, prolong the agony...

Yet she steps from the elevator with a tingle of anticipation. As she approaches his studio she sees an enormous piece of foam core affixed to the closed door... the words,  _Come in, Elizabeth,_ are spray painted on it in red.

Red. Is that a bad omen?

She pushes the door open, peers around it, calling out cautiously, "Franco...?"

There's no answer. She steps inside and sees a single easel standing in the center of the room. There's a utility table next to it, holding a palette arrayed with fresh paint, tin cups full of solvents, a clean rag, and the beautiful new sable brushes fanned out in a coffee can. She calls for Franco again, and when there's still no response, she closes the door behind her and moves closer to read the large note affixed to the palette...

 _Use me_ , it says.

A blanket lays neatly folded in front of the easel, and the soft blue smock hangs from the easel's mast. A note that says  _Wear me_  is pinned to it.

A prepared canvas rests on the easel's shelf at just her height, and on its surface in light gray paint are the words:

_The place is yours. Take as much time as you need, and leave the mess... tidying up is my therapy. F._

A cut-out arrow points to the table by the wall, on which a still life has been artfully arranged — a bouquet of elegant flowers in an antique silver vase, a shiny red apple, a cluster of green grapes and a delicate china plate lying flat on a bit of lace — all dramatically lit by the stand light. Another piece of foam core hangs from the table, sprayed with the words,  _Paint me_.

She remembers what he'd said all those days ago: _First time back in the saddle, you want something inspiring_.  _Something beautiful..._

But that's exactly what she'd had, when he'd sat in that ugly chair and modeled for her. A revelation strikes her, sucks the air from her lungs: She doesn't want  _pretty_. She doesn't want superficial or predictable or even  _safe_. She wants—

The thought freezes in her mind when she sees that the delicate china plate in the still life isn't empty. She leans over... and sees that it's holding a single piece of toast.

The laughter that slips from her then isn't simple... it's shot through with relief and a poignant tenderness that brings tears to her eyes.  _Toast_. That day in her new home, that first kiss — the one that  _never happened_  — even then he moved her in ways she wasn't ready for, thought she would never be ready for. She makes it to a kitchen chair before her knees buckle... and as she breathes to center herself, she's surrounded by the scent of chamomile rising from a teapot on the table. A note propped against it reads,  _Drink me._

His yellow mug sits next to it, smiling at her... forgiving her. She smiles right back, the tears rolling freely down her cheeks... because she feels  _known,_ right down to her toes.

#

A short time later, Elizabeth steps into the hallway, the huge blue smock buttoned to the neck. She looks to the left down the brightly lit hallway toward the whitewashed brick wall... the familiar way, the way she's always come. Then she looks to the right; it's dimmer, and at the end is a windowless door leading to the stairwell. It's slightly ajar. She moves quickly, sneakers scuffing lightly over the concrete floor, and pushes the door open with a clang. The stairwell is lit only by red emergency lights, and she can make out nothing but shadows at first... until a figure separates itself, takes a step toward her, and stops.

"Hey," Elizabeth says into Franco's silence.

"Hey." His voice is soft. He's looming in this small space, his hands jammed deep in his pockets.

"Hey," she says again, because it's all she can manage, caught as she is in a swirl of emotions, confronting him in the flesh like this...

There's a long pause in which they each dart glances at the other in the red light, eyes never quite meeting... a pause in which Elizabeth re-evaluates everything she's planning, feels her nerve begin to slip away...

"I wasn't spying," he says finally, sheepishly.

"I know," she says. "I just... I figured you wouldn't set up something this elaborate without watching it play out."

"Huh. Okay, yeah," he chuckles. "Well, you didn't go storming away, so...," he pulls a hand from his pocket and jerks it toward the stairs. "I was just about to leave...,"

But he doesn't leave. He stands there, seeming as torn as she is... until she finds the courage to go to him, and take his hand.

"I don't want you to leave," she says.

He stiffens and looks directly at her for the first time. That now familiar kaleidoscope of emotions plays over his face... and settles on doubt. Still, he lets her lead him out into the hallway and through the open door of his studio... where he stops dead.

"I've done some rearranging. I hope you don't mind." Elizabeth's pulse pounds as she watches him take in her handiwork...

The shades are drawn and the easel and utility table have been moved away. In their place on the floor is a makeshift bed comprised of every drop cloth, blanket and cushion she could find. A half-dozen mismatched candles surround the bed, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow. The single red rose from the still-life bouquet has been lovingly placed in the center of it all.

Franco doesn't move, doesn't react. Elizabeth releases his hand to let him do whatever he'll do; he would have every right to reject her...she's half expecting it. She pulls a deep breath, closes the door behind them and moves around to face him.

Her heart swells at the sight of tears glistening in his eyes.

_**To be continued...** _


	6. Chapter 6

Those eyes... that face. How well Elizabeth has come to know Franco's features in the hours she's spent studying his portrait. But that was flat, two-dimensional, black and white. Things are much more complicated in three-dimensions...

Now she can see things the photo doesn't show — wounded eyes, the fresh, deep suspicion in his frown — the damage she caused by walking out, vivid now, bathed in candlelight. She can't look away from it. And there's no hint of tenderness.

But there are tears, so there's vulnerability... and she wants with all her heart to heal the pain she caused. She knows she can. She's already begun, with this gesture — as grand as his was — telling him clearly that yes, she wants to be with him...

So she continues. She stands before him, locks into his eyes and begins to slowly unbutton the collar of the soft blue smock. She wills her face to reflect everything she's feeling — the joyful acceptance of her growing love for him, her powerful desire and aching regret — and she doesn't try to hide the fact that her lips and fingers are trembling.

And Franco watches, brow furrowed, light flickering over his skin...

By the fifth button, it's clear she's wearing nothing underneath.

Franco's lips part with a small gasp. He sways, eyes closing fractionally... then his face darkens like a storm. He wheels away from her, wraps his arms tightly around himself and drops back against the wall. "Do you—," he begins, voice thick. He clears his throat and starts again. "Do you know what I wanted from today?"

A shy smile tugs at her lips as she begins to answer, but he cuts her off.

"I was going to watch from the stairwell to see if you came. I didn't think you would. I hoped you would... and if you did, I only planned to stay long enough to see if you stuck around. Then I was going to drive into the mountains and spend the day hiking and sketching... but I'd also be imagining you here, in my space, working and getting that look in your eye, becoming fully yourself. I could hold you close like that, in my mind. And then I'd come back after sunset and you'd be gone, safe at home with your boys, but you'd still be here with me, everywhere, and I could smell your perfume on the smock and see your lipstick on the mug and look at the palette and deconstruct the thought process behind how you mixed your colors... maybe the toast would have made you smile and maybe you would have taken a bite out of it, and maybe you'd have left your work on the easel for me to see... that's what I wanted. That's as close as I wanted you to be."

Elizabeth can see it all, the simple intimacy of his longing, and she's speechless, shaken by his pain and her stupid, selfish mistakes... and by how obvious it is that he's in love with her. But she'd been so locked in fear and doubt that she couldn't accept what he'd been offering... until today. And now, it might be too late...

He's continuing, hunching in on himself, voice harsh and angry. "What I didn't want was  _this._ Any of  _this._ But you do. This is what you want from me on this fine, sunny Tuesday, Nurse Webber. You want sex. Okay, fine you'll get sex. You can get your freak on with the  _freak_."

He spits the last word like a mouthful of black hate. She feels gut-punched by the accusation, roughly closes the smock and sets her jaw to protest — but stops when she sees that he's shaking and his face is twisting with anguish... and for a moment, his carefully honed mask slips to reveal a self-loathing so profound and vicious that it drives the air from her lungs.

She's torn between horror and grief and shakes her head to steady herself, stunned to realize that she had scrutinized that mask for a week and never saw a damned thing that mattered.

_Who he was... what he did... that man is not this man..._

He's been moving through the world as a sort of proud outcast — the Witty Eccentric with the Secret Heart-of-Gold — an act so convincing that it never occurred to her to wonder if he's managed to make peace with the wreckage of his past... with the hideous, violent memories he inherited from someone else's life. With the guilt. Has he forgiven himself? Has he  _healed?_

Of course he hasn't. And it's clear to her now how tortured he is, how at the mercy of his demons... how completely alone.

She moves close, lays gentle hands on his arms, but he shrinks away and glares at her with a potent mix of yearning and hate.

"It'll be our little secret, Nurse Webber," he says. " _Whatever you need, I'll always be there for you_. That's what I said, that's what you'll get. All the secret fucked up sex you can handle—"

"—Franco, stop. You're  _wrong,_ that's not at all—"

"—Not wrong. It's Freak Show Tuesday! Pretty Lizzie and the Psycho." He's quaking as though the already-shaky scaffolding inside him is collapsing.

"Sshhh, please, God, don't say that about yourself," she gasps, tears burning as she struggles to pry his crossed arms apart and make space for herself. She's determined to hold him — is desperate to, in fact — but he fights her, pushes her away. She grapples, grunts, doesn't give up, and when she finally manages to press herself against his chest and wrap her arms tightly around him, his own arms drop like lead weights to his sides.

She's too overcome with effort and emotion to manage anything more than, "You're such an idiot."

He's as motionless as he was when he posed for her... when he was off inside himself, watching his circus...

"Pretty Lizzie," he murmurs over her head, as though he hadn't heard her. "My beautiful Elizabeth. No, not mine. Never mine... never mind."

"Shut up," she hisses. "Just shut up and pay attention. I  _am_  yours. I'm the idiot. I'm so sorry I walked out on you."

He's shudders and sags, drops his head back as though addressing the heavens. "Why... why did you  _do_  that?" he says, barely above a whisper... and so broken. She can feel his heart thudding under her cheek as she gathers him as close as she possibly can; his powerful body seems unutterably frail in the circle of her arms, like she alone is holding him together...

Her tears flow hard. Anything she might say feels ridiculous and small now, but he asked why... even though he already knows the answer.

"You were right," she says, voice shivery and weak. "It was too much. What we did, what I felt... I was overwhelmed and felt so  _lost._ I didn't recognize myself, Franco... and it terrified me."

He groans, soul deep, and his arms slide around her. "Lost." He buries his face in her hair. "Terrified."

He holds her like that for many beats, and she knows from her glimpse behind his mask that those simple syllables carry worlds of meaning for him. His arms tighten suddenly, folding her into a bear hug.

"I get it. I do," he says fiercely. "But you have to  _talk_  to me and not run away. You can't just run away..."

She clings to him, relieved beyond words to feel the life force returning to him. "I won't. Not again."

She'd always suspected that he saw her love as a sort of trophy to be won... and if he won, that meant she lost. But now she sees that it's not a battle of wills — he wants love for the same reasons she does: intimacy, the possibility of happiness, to feel worthy... to not be alone. To be  _chosen_. And maybe he needs it more than most.

"This is different, isn't it?" she says, surprised to hear her voice trembling.

"This  _is_  different." His breath is hot in the crook of her neck, and he holds onto her with a crushing strength that makes her feel both bound and protected. "Because  _we're_  different..."

And there, in the safety of his arms, a realization strikes her like a bolt from the blue: For the first time in her romantic life, she is someone's everything... and she has _all the power_...

And, as any mother of a Spiderman fan knows, with great power... comes great responsibility.

A heady mix of clarity, resolve and elation makes her carefully withdraw herself from his embrace. His arms resist letting her go, but she takes his hand and for the second time that day, she leads him... this time between the candles to the makeshift bed. He's reluctant — she feels a tremor run through him, like he's forcing himself not to pull away, and she knows what he's thinking...

"I don't want to use you, Franco," she says. "I just want to hold you."

He nods, face tense but softening, not completely trusting, but trying.

As she guides him down, he grabs the single red rose from the blanket, fist tightening to crush it in a flare of residual hurt or anger, but she takes it from him gently and urges him to lie back. His body is rigid. It feels so strange to her, yet not, to be the one doing the reassuring — that's always been his role. But she caresses his face, his hair, soothing him, murmuring soft sounds to chase the demons away until she feels him relax under her hands. As she lies down next to him, he lifts his arm to make space for her. She curls into his side and rests her cheek on his chest.

"I never wanted you to see me lose it like that," he says with a heavy exhale. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," she says and snuggles closer to listen to his heart beat.

_**To be continued...** _


	7. Chapter 7

As they rest together, breath gradually synchronizing, Elizabeth drifts in the warmth of Franco, the scent of rose and turpentine, the vision of candlelight dancing with shadow over the odd contents of the studio. Pipes groan overhead, the elevator whooshes and grinds in the distance — and beneath it all is the hypnotic, intimate rhythm of Franco's heartbeat.

His crisis seems to have passed, but it left an indelible mark on her. She's  _seen_  him now, deeply, irrevocably, and it revived something inside her that she'd long ago given up for dead. She hasn't been able to identify it — it feels more complex and primal than romantic love — and she's almost afraid to examine it too closely for fear it might fade. But one thing is certain: She's in this with him now, body and soul, and it's the greatest joy she's felt since little Jake's return from the dead.

But that's just  _her_  reaction. She can't know what Franco is feeling... if her rejection did any lasting damage, if he slipped a bit too far into that darkness of his and what may have happened there. She gazes at the rose in her hand, at the luxuriant bloom of red, notices the stem has no thorns... and it strikes her how unnatural, how unrealistic that is...

She knows it may take awhile to regain his trust, so she follows his lead, lets him set the pace... and it's a fine pace. He's been playing with her hair; sometimes twisting it around his finger, sometimes lifting it and letting it flow like water, lulling her. She could lay forever in the comfort of this moment, knowing everyone in her world is safe and loved...

Her arm is resting over his chest and she's not surprised when she feels his tentative touch on her wrist — his quickening heartbeat had alerted her to a change. It's a simple whisper of fingertips on skin, but it inflames her. His touch seems impossibly delicate for someone so solid and masculine, but she'll never forget the attentive way he cared for his painting materials, or his first reverent caress between her legs...

But she waits, doesn't react, even when he pushes up on his elbow and gently rolls her onto her back. He looks down at her, guarded eyes moving slowly over her face, raising heat wherever they fall. He takes the rose from her hand, hesitates, then drifts the bloom over her cheek. She watches his gaze soften as though savoring the contrast of milky skin and crimson red...

Intoxicating perfume surrounds her and she inhales deeply, closes her eyes as he trails the rose slowly over her brow, her temple, down her other cheek, along her jaw, pausing near her mouth...

She opens her eyes to find his, dark with conflict in the flickering candlelight. He searches her face, seems to see something that makes him lean down and touch his lips to hers — sweet, noncommittal, too brief. When he pulls back, there's a trace of the same soft smile, the same tender intimacy she thought she'd destroyed forever. She wants to weep with relief until she remembers, with a stab of pain, that it's just a mask. Or maybe not; the expression deepens as he whispers the rose over her mouth, draws it down her chin... and she tilts her head back, elongating her throat for him, closing her eyes again to sink fully into his sensuous attention, the feel petals on her skin... and soon she shivers to feel his warm, liquid breath on her throat as his mouth follows in the rose's wake, moving so slowly, tasting her, arousing her...

His lips ghost over her collarbone, pause at the vulnerable hollow at the base of her throat... and his fingertips, the petals and his tongue each caress her pulse in turn...

 _Suprasternal notch_... a voice in her head recites. PCU, a course in Figure Anatomy For Artists. She'd memorized bone, joints and muscle, insertion points and surface landmarks — an entirely different knowledge set from the one taught in nursing school — but she doesn't want to think about that now, not when he's moving the rose down to where her breasts are barely covered by the open edges of the smock...

Down the  _sternum_  between the  _pectoralis major_  muscles... the voice recites.

The words are an unwelcome distraction, so she banishes them... but this time she understands what's happening: Fear is returning, and with it resistance. But... why fear? This is what she wanted, this is what she set in motion...

Then the silken petals are caressing the inner swells of her breasts and her back is arching, she's gasping... and her afternoon with Franco comes rushing back, knocking her sideways again into a confusing tangle of passion, euphoria, exquisite sensations... and she remembers becoming a stranger to herself, feverish, so lost in him...

But she can allow it now, the surrender, the  _letting go_. This is different, and she's safe in every way... and even though undeclared, the air is thick with love...

He's opening the smock and she watches him... sees his eyes darken, lips part as for the first time he drinks in the sight of her breasts. Her exposure and his reaction are wildly arousing and she feels her nipples tighten even before he begins whispering the rose over each one in turn. They harden to an ache and she whimpers, strains toward him, slips a hand into his hair...

He lowers his head and breathes heat and promise onto one nipple, but makes her wait. It's agonizing... his long silky hair skims her breast, lips so close but not touching... and when he finally flicks the tender peak with his tongue, the shock makes her shudder and cry out. She feels him smile against her skin.

It occurs to her that she's completely out of her league — he seems to know exactly how to play her body to elicit the response he wants. She knows she should be overjoyed, after some lackluster experiences in the past, but there's an air of calculated detachment to this mastery of his... and she wonders if this might not be a strange sort of punishment...

He's rimming the nipple with his teeth now in perfectly balanced pleasure/pain that's sending shockwaves to her vulva, but she wants connection, not performance art...

"Hey," she says, running her fingers through his hair. He sucks her nipple hard into his mouth, convulsing her body... and  _Jesus_...

" _Hey_ ," she gasps and takes his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her... but his eyes dart away, focus somewhere beyond her, then close completely.

"What's happening," she says.

She watches the kaleidoscope of expressions, wonders which he'll settle on — the feigned innocence, the tiny scowl of bitterness — but he suddenly lowers his brow to hers and presses, breathing erratic as though he's struggling for control.

"I  _missed_  you," he hisses, harsh and so full of pain that her eyes well with tears. She slides her arms around him in a fierce hug.

"I missed you, too."

He drops his head and burrows deeply into the crook of her neck, settles in, body gradually relaxing.

"So... you're here...?" It's a muffled rumble that tickles her skin.

"Yes," she says.

"You're really here..."

"Yes, I'm really here."

"You're really  _really_  here..."

She laughs, hugs him harder. "Yes! And I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls back and looks down at her, face awash with that tender expression she's come to cherish. He smooths a few strands of hair from her cheek and asks softly,

"What changed?"

So much has changed... but she goes with an impulse and beams at him. "Must have been the toast."

He bursts out laughing, wraps his arms around her, lifts her tight to his chest and holds on. She laughs too, joyfully, and as she laughs, the words float out of her mouth... innocent and breathless:

"I love you."

He freezes.

And so does she, caught in a moment she hadn't prepared for... but here it is.

She's the one to pull back this time, and finds that his eyes are wide, skin pale. He offers no flippant remarks, asks no more questions. The mask seems to have slipped again, but this time, instead of self-loathing she sees tense, guarded  _hope_.

She holds his face with both hands and locks into his eyes. "I love you," she says.

He touches her mouth tentatively, traces the shape with wonder, like she's a fragile, fleeting gift...

"Yeah... but I loved you first," he whispers with a small smile that he can't seem to hold. His lips form the word,  _Elizabeth_ , but he doesn't say it. Instead, he kisses her... not tentatively now, but deeply, possessively, his large hands cradling her head, mouth forcing hers open... and she knows that whatever mask he'd been hiding behind is in tatters.

There's no slow progression from romantic to frantic — it happens in an instant, and instead of being shocked by his sudden urgency, it's like a lit match to gasoline. She shudders in his arms and moves against him frantically. Her mouth is as hungry as his and she battles his skilled tongue with her own, hands unbuttoning and opening his shirt, running over whatever she can reach — the expanse of his chest, the soft spray of hair — glorying in the texture and heat of his skin...

With a snarl, he rolls his body over hers, tears his mouth away and attacks her throat again, torturing it with his teeth and tongue, his groans and wet/hot breath making her tremble and cringe from the too-much of it... but it's not nearly enough, and she throws her head back, inviting, daring, her fingers digging into his strong, broad shoulders...

No more performance art, no more hiding... for either of them. This is real, raw and honest...

It's also frenzied, too fast. She could slow it down — she's on the verge of getting lost again, the ancient fear and resistance are rising, tightening her gut — but the love and joy are so much stronger now... and the feel of his body, his mouth, his sure hands moving to cup her hips... his deep, hungry sounds, and the promise of more...

How could she not want more...

He's between her legs now, rocking, but all she feels is the rough material of his jeans. There's only a moment's self-conscious hesitation before she drops a hand down between their bodies and fumbles with his belt.

"Yeah," he breathes, lifting up to give her room as he palms the naked skin of her thigh, pushes her leg around his hip and dives to her breasts, biting and sucking... and there's so much sensation flooding her that she can't focus on anything but her growing need. She tears open his belt and the first few buttons of his jeans, but she can't wait, finds the waistband of his boxer briefs and slips inside to feel the silken hardness of his erection. He thrusts into her hand with a sharp, raw groan that clenches her vulva like a vise... and the intimacy of actually touching his cock makes her crazy...

She had always imagined — when she'd allowed herself to imagine it — that their first time would be slow and loving. She's always wanted to undress him, would fantasize about his hazel eyes watching her as she slid his shirt from his shoulders, lowered his jeans. He'd stroke her hair and she'd blush under his gaze as she enjoyed the slow, erotic revelation of his body...

But now all she wants is to get him inside her. She's on fire, soaking wet and so beyond ready for him that she swipes a thumb over his tip, grabs his shaft with one hand and pushes at his jeans with the other, getting them down over his narrow hips...

The hem of her smock gets caught between them and he tears it away with a harsh curse, his breathing shallow, his hand on her ass pulling her up tight against him...

But he suddenly stops, weaves his other hand into her hair and twists gently so she's forced to look up at him through her delirium. There's a dark intensity in his eyes and she knows exactly what it's saying,

_This is real._ _This is happening and it's right and there's no turning back..._

" _Yes_ ," she says, nodding, managing to get a hand behind his head to pull him down for a hot, open-mouthed kiss that he returns ferociously. He's moving, positioning himself, and she spreads her legs wide for him, wraps them around his hips and then she feels him, his heat and pressure, and she strains down as he pushes...

He's too much to take all at once... " _Stop stop stop,_ " she gasps, and he stops, gives her time to adjust, but it's barely a beat before she's straining down again, digging her heels into his ass, needing him deep...

And when he sinks home, when they're finally joined... they both collapse, shaking, clinging to one another, each breathing the other's name, losing some syllables to moans and gasps...

And they laugh.

_**To be continued...** _


	8. Chapter 8

Their laughter is shivery, overwhelmed, but it gradually fades as Elizabeth feels a change come over Franco... a gravity, a reverence. He braces his weight on his forearms and cradles her head in gentle hands and doesn't move, just watches her intently as though looking for signs of doubt or distress, as though afraid of harming this delicate, precious thing beneath him... but she rocks, opens herself to him as much as she can, to draw and absorb him into her body, her mind and senses — and he's filling her everywhere, beyond her limits... and it's perfect, perfect...

Her lips tremble with a tender, blissful smile... but he drops his eyes, doesn't smile back. Instead a look crosses his face that's so close to pain she stiffens.

"I'm sorry... I need a minute," he murmurs. "Finally being inside you... it's kind of blowing my mind." He gives a shaky laugh, lifts his eyes to hers again, strokes her cheeks with his thumbs.

"I love it, Franco... you feel so good," she whispers, not minding that her voice breaks, or that tears are gathering.

He closes his eyes, slowly pushes so deep that her head snaps back and her fingers dig like claws into his shoulders. But he doesn't continue, just rests there, the anticipation building to a such maddening, throbbing ache inside her that she clamps down on him, rolls her hips to urge him on...

"Don't move yet," he breathes. "I just want to feel you."

"God, you're a tease," she gasps, but manages to relax a bit and let him take his time.

He gives her a slow half-smile and kisses her sensuously, then again. His lavish hair flows softly around their faces like a veil, the candles glow in a circle beyond... and reality is very, very far away. Elizabeth feels unmoored from everything she's known, yet cherished and protected in this private world they're creating... but she sees a shadow of doubt in his eyes, the slightest hint of resistance — something she'd never seen in him before today.

It hurts her.

"I do love you," she whispers, breathing his warm breath, caressing his parted lips, full and glistening in the dim light... and he's so beautiful, so vivid inside her that she pulls him down for a deep, insistent tongue kiss. He groans into her mouth, withdraws himself to the tip and thrusts powerfully inside to her core, making her break the kiss and cry out, pulsing around him at the shock of pleasure radiating through her body.

He sets a slow, steady rhythm then, perspiration rising on his skin, soft moans with each thrust... but soon there's an edge of restraint in his movements, almost...  _inhibition_. His eyes are pleasure-soaked, locked into hers, but she sees a darkening, a flicker of struggle there. It makes her wants to pause, try to speak, but he covers her mouth with his in a tender kiss... slow and searching at first, then rougher, growing passionate and wild, his hands tangling desperately in her hair as though something has begun breaking inside him... until finally, with a bitter groan, he tears his mouth away from hers and drops his head hard into the curve of her neck.

It's a shutting down... and she would notice it if he weren't suddenly fucking her in earnest, moving so expertly that she's lost, mewling, clinging, meeting him thrust for thrust...

And it takes her a moment to realize he's pulling back, saying words that barely register:

"It's too much..."

His breathing is labored and she manages to focus on him through the carnal fog...

"What  _is_  this?" he's saying. "I don't know this..."

She's startled, confused, can't react at first, but he's extending his arms, pushing up and away from her, withdrawing, and every cell in her body needs him to stay. She tightens her legs around his waist, digs her nails into his shoulders until he freezes.

"Okay. I'm okay," he gasps, squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in air through gritted teeth.

"What's happening," she says, barely breathing.

He shakes his head roughly. He's tight as a drum under her hands.

"Are you in pain? Franco, tell me," she's says, surprised by the calm authority in her voice.

He swallows hard, forces out words.

"I don't know how to feel this. I'm dying... and there's only  _you_..."

She goes cold as the world shift sideways. "What do you mean, you're  _dying_?"

"Jesus, I can't... I can't." He's pulling away again, with a strength she's unable to fight... when suddenly he freezes, eyes wide. "Is this  _love_? It is, isn't it?"

She's stunned by the words, by their implication, but feels heat and life flood back into her body — blessed  _relief_. For one hideous moment it had seemed that everything she'd come to believe about him was wrong... that he was still delusional... or worse...

But he's sincere... genuinely lost.

_Is this love..._

Her mind is a whirlwind of questions with no answers in sight, but he needs something from her, fast. And all she has is instinct.

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay," she says... to comfort, to reassure. "I'm here. We're both safe."

It's so simple, but thankfully, it seems to be enough. He fastens his eyes on hers like he's grabbing a lifeline and she runs her hands gently along his arms, the tension in his muscles easing as he gets his breathing under control. He sighs deeply, lets her take his face between her palms, and she watches his eyes flutter closed as he sags into the touch. He lowers his body onto hers and she can feel his heart thudding, breath hot against her cheek... and he laughs, humorlessly.

"That was stupid. I know that was stupid."

"Not stupid at all." She works to keep her voice steady. Her heart is bursting with love for him, yet raging at the demons who robbed him of so much...

"It hurts," he whispers. "It hurts... and it doesn't."

She slides fierce arms around him. She knows all too well the power of love... how it can consume and annihilate, how it can turn you into the best version of yourself... or the worst. Sometimes both. It's the very thing she's been running from, and he's right — it hurts. God, it hurts like hell. And it doesn't.

Especially first love.

She can barely get her mind around the idea... but she knows so little of his past or the effects of his illness. In many ways he's like a child, struggling to learn and grow and be better... but so is she. So she simply holds him close, her eyes wet with tears, and says, "I know."

"I didn't," he says with a sort of shocked bewilderment. "I didn't know."

#

They lay on the makeshift bed on the floor of Franco's studio, mostly clothed, completely joined. Franco is still partially erect, snug inside Elizabeth, but neither is in a hurry to do anything about it. He has rolled them onto their sides and they face each other, arms intertwined, her leg slung over his hip. They speak in low voices when they speak at all. Mostly they breathe together, look into each other's eyes and touch softly in the flickering candlelight...

 _It's beautiful, being connected this way_ , Elizabeth says silently. She doesn't need to say it out loud, because she knows now, without a doubt, that he would agree.

He's tracing her collarbone with gentle fingertips when he draws a deep breath. "You have questions," he says.

She's tracing his collarbone, too... the curve of smooth, taut skin. She has so many questions, but no idea where to start. "Tell me what you want me to know."

He nods slowly, seems to look inward, expression shifting, and she tries to imagine his internal circus, would so love to get a glimpse. When he speaks, he speaks quietly, sometimes hesitantly, sometimes in a rush, his voice deep and so soft she has to snuggle in closer to hear him.

"I don't know how much was the tumor," he says. "And how much was just me... my DNA. But looking back, I didn't experience emotions like other people did. As far back as I can remember, people would laugh or cry or yell and I didn't know why. I was just flat... numb. It was like they were all in color and I was in black and white."

He pauses for another breath, doesn't look at her as he continues.

"My m—," he breaks off, starts again. "People, other kids, they didn't know what to make of me... I guess I was hard to be around... so I ended up watching a lot of TV and gradually it taught me to read cues, you know — facial expressions, body language, tone of voice — and I figured out how to fake emotions convincingly enough that people thought I was kind of okay, and they'd let me get close... closer than they should have, because by that time...,"

He breaks off again, swallowing hard, jaw working.

"Franco, we don't have to—,"

"I know." He raises her hand and kisses it gently, lips trembling. Before she can stop him, or even protest, he slips from inside her and pushes away. Her hand remains in his, but he leaves her empty, bereft...

"I can't forget anything," he continues, steadier now. "When they took the tumor out... it was like when Dorothy landed in Oz. But fuck, I'd have given anything right then to go back to black and white and not have to  _feel_...,"

He's radiating anguish — it penetrates to her bones. She moves to comfort him, but he squeezes her hand with a desperate urgency. "Don't," he says, eyes suddenly blazing. "There's nothing you can say or do. I'm trying to learn things now that every kid learns in kindergarten and I get it wrong, all the time. The old patterns are still in here... and this new thing I feel for you... this incredible  _love_... I feel it but I don't know  _how_  to feel it and I'm afraid, Elizabeth. When I feel too much, I overreact. I  _do_  things...,"

"Shh, stop, stop," she's saying with mounting intensity, trying to break through his rush of words. With the hand not caught in his powerful grip, she strokes his face in the way she's learned is soothing to him. But it seems harder for him to relax this time. His focus is inside himself and she can only imagine what he might be seeing... the ghosts and horrors that belong to another lifetime, reaching into this one to haunt him. Frustration grows in her, then anger, then a fierce determination to help him break free...

When she senses he's calm enough, she braces herself... and risks a smile.

"Okay, Franco," she says. "So what now? Would you rather not love me? Or maybe ratchet it back a bit? I could cut back on the personal hygiene, or start being mean to patients in front of you...,"

He eyes her uncertainly. "Look... I know you're being...," he pauses, lets go of her hand, and continues softly, "I just... I don't want to hurt you, Elizabeth."

She pushes up on her elbow. Gently, lovingly she sweeps a lock of hair behind his ear and wills him to see himself as she sees him. "I don't believe you're capable of hurting me, Franco," she says. "The fact that you can love this way, after everything you've been through... it might hurt like hell right now, but it's a miracle. And it's an incredible gift to me... incredible and beautiful and, though I'm not sure I deserve it, I'm not about to let your fear take it away from me. I'm selfish that way."

He's looking up at her with wet, guarded eyes. "What about  _your_  fear? You're the one who walked out. I can't—,"

"—But I came back," she interrupts, overcome by a stab of pain. "And I'm not going anywhere."

His eyes fix on hers, and she feels that he's probing her, seeing her much more clearly than she can see herself...  _knowing_  her.

"It's not just about you, though... is it, Elizabeth?"

She understands instantly and feels the energy drain from her. She eases down to her side again, clasps her hands under her cheek. "No, it's not. My boys will always come first."

He reaches out and caresses her face. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

There's suddenly very little air in the room. "So... what are you saying, Franco?"

"That maybe fear isn't all bad. It keeps us vigilant, keeps us from making reckless choices."

They stare at each other in a kind of suspended animation. He seems calm, resolved. She feels like she's plummeting through space.

"Can I ask one question," she says, working to steady her voice. He's silent, and she takes it as permission. "After the tumor... the feelings that were so overwhelming at first... did you get used to them eventually?"

His face clouds and his eyes dart away from her.

She bites her lip, emboldened. "Then don't you think you could get used to  _this one,_ too? With lots of time... and constant exposure... could you maybe even come to enjoy it?"

He eyes her, his expression softening bit by bit. "That's... let's see...," he glances at the ceiling, then back at her with undisguised warmth. "Three questions. You're cunning, Nurse Webber."

She manages a small smile, though her heart is pounding. "So... what do you think," she says.

"I think... you make some sense. I think I shouldn't make any hasty decisions." His gaze drifts from her eyes to her mouth, pausing there as she licks her lips, down to her breasts... then farther down, growing dark and hungry, generating unbearable heat. The change is so fast, but so right, and it's the most natural thing in the world for her to lie back and spread her legs as he moves over her...

"Constant exposure," he murmurs, positioning himself.

"Constant exposure," she agrees, missing him so badly, reaching for him...

He pushes inside her slowly, only partway, as though testing himself, withdraws to the tip, then slides deep with a single stroke and a growl that sets every one of her nerves on fire, makes her moan his name and wrap herself around him in a joyful welcome. He doesn't treat her like a breakable thing this time; he leans more of his weight on her, rests his forehead on hers, closes his eyes and sets an achingly slow pace as though absorbing her with each of his senses. Her own awareness spirals down to where their bodies are joined, to the pressure, the sensual, rocking glide as they move together. She's half delirious, breathing him in, his soft sounds of pleasure rolling through her like waves...

"Perfect... perfect," he sighs. "This really is new. Love. Wow...  _love_."

He raises his head and laughs, looks down at her with open delight. "Elizabeth," he says, full of awe, and then again, softly, caressing her face like she's a miracle.

"Here, help me get this off," he says abruptly. "I want to feel your hands on me." He angles his body and she helps him shrug out of his shirt, lets her hands rove shamelessly over his liquid smooth skin, down to the curve of his ass, feeling the flex and release of his muscles...

"Now you," he says. "Lift your arms." He reaches under her smock, plants his palm in the middle of her back and pulls her up effortlessly, pressing her naked breasts to his chest. She lifts her arms over her head... but instead of peeling off the smock, he seems to reconsider and wraps his free hand around both of her small wrists, pinning them to the floor. He changes the angle of his hips and plunges deep, laying down a trail of fire.

"More than anything in the world right now," he says, deep and low. "I want to make you come."

She gasps at that, convulses around his cock, halfway there already. She's trapped by his hands and his body, at his mercy as he moves inside her, rocking at the perfect angle, the trail of fire exquisite, expanding, draining her will. He's watching her with a dark ferocity that once would have frightened her, each thrust bringing her closer, and all she can do is tighten her legs around his hips and hang on, taste his mouth when it covers hers, mewl when he bends and sucks her nipples, his hair sweeping her sweat-slick skin... on and on...

Until she feels him grow even harder, his movements becoming erratic... "Jesus, you're so beautiful...," he gasps, beginning to losing himself, and it's his pleasure that finally makes her cry out and shatter, makes her pulse around him, wring his cock until he's shattering too, with a single low moan of, "Oh, yeah, fuck yeah, Elizabeth...," that she knows she will never, ever forget...

#

Many minutes later, they're lying on their backs, separate yet holding hands, each recovering in their own way.

"We did all that with our sneakers on...," Franco says, distantly amused.

"Hmmm. That's not very sexy," she manages, though she can barely speak.

He chuckles. "Not really an appropriate story for the grandkids."

Elizabeth smiles.

**_To be continued..._ **


	9. Chapter 9

Elizabeth's smile lingers as she lies next to Franco, their fingers intertwined. Her body is utterly sated, but her mind is busy reviewing, forming questions, recalling phrases...

_The grandkids..._

It's the way he said it — nonchalant, matter-of-fact, as though marriage and kids and a committed future together are a foregone conclusion. She searches herself for any sense of warning... at the very least it was a presumptuous thing to say, at the very worst dangerously obsessive... but instead of alarm she feels warmed by it, strangely secure...

Still, she can't let it pass. "Grandkids?" she teases. " _Our_  grandkids? Aren't you getting a bit ahead of yourself?"

He rolls his head toward her and blinks like he hadn't realized he'd said that out loud. "Oh... I freaked you out. I should probably say I was kidding..."

She smiles, starts to protest, but he abruptly pushes up to his elbow.

"The thing is... so, I'm in this for the long haul, Elizabeth. I might as well just say it now. Grandkids, no grandkids, dogs, cats, pot-bellied pigs, whatever. It probably seems sudden, but it's not sudden for me."

There's about a dozen things she wants to say, but he charges on.

"Yeah, I know, you're right, I should probably slow down," he says, dropping his head. But it snaps right back up again. "But I don't  _want_  to slow down. I want it all, right now. That doesn't mean I'm rushing you — I'm not expecting promises or commitments, I'm not asking for anything except permission to... to love you. To celebrate you, and do everything in my power to support you and make you happy... you  _and_  your boys."

She's bowled over, speechless, feels her mouth opening and closing like a freshly-caught fish. She has no doubt he means it — his face is awash with that familiar tenderness, that  _love_ , his heart wide open, even after so much injury. She remembers being that open once, a very long time ago...

Tears flood her eyes and she smiles up at him until his brow furrows.

"What?"

"It's just... I," she stammers, looking for the right words. "I never imagined I'd say this, Franco Baldwin, but I think in some ways you may be a little too good for this world."

His eyes fly wide at that. He barks a stunned laugh and shakes his head in a vehement  _no_.

"I just want to be good for you, Elizabeth," he whispers, caressing her face, tracing every plane, every contour, and as he watches her reaction, a change slowly comes over him.

"And that leads me to the only other thing I'm asking for." His tone drops, eyes darken... and the intense erotic connection they've begun to forge flares between them. His hand drifts down her throat, over her chest, and his fingers make soft, leisurely circles around her nipples. He watches each of them harden in turn.

"Don't you want to know what it is?"

She's much too busy shivering under his touch to answer.

"I want the chance to make every one of your fantasies come true," he says, gently rolling a nipple between his fingers. "What do you think about that?""

"I think," she says, steadying her voice, wildly aroused, but determined not to be a total pushover. "That we should at least see each other naked before we start talking about grandchildren and—,"

He pinches the nipple, making her gasp and lose her words.

"—And pot-bellied pigs?" he says.

She nods, no earthly idea what she's agreeing to.

"Fair enough. Me first." He pulls away from her and sits up, bends his legs at odd angles, pulls off his sneakers, stuffs them with his socks and tosses them aside with twin thuds. He glances down at where his jeans are slung very low on his pelvis, his semi-erect penis free and growing again.

"Give me a hand?" He leans back on his elbows and lifts his hips. Her body ignites with the visceral memory of him moving inside her... and somehow he  _knows,_  gives her a hot, breathtakingly carnal look that makes her blush from head to toe.

For all his self-loathing and vulnerability, in some ways he's a very proud man... and he has every reason to be. Still, Elizabeth doesn't want to stare. She's aching for him, but tilts her head, arches a brow.

"Give you a hand with what... exactly?"

He looks down in a general way. "You know...,"

"Yeah, I know," she teases, gets to her knees and slides his heavy jeans and boxer briefs down his long legs and off. She starts to fold them, out of domestic habit, but he scowls and yanks them away.

"Nope, uh-uh. None of that here." He hurls them overhand into a dark corner where they land with a metallic clatter.

Mid-laughter, she notices a stain of crimson red near his hip. She stiffens with alarm, thinking it's blood... but it's just the rose, a bit flattened. She picks it up and the perfume wafts over her, sending her deep into the sensuous memory of its touch on her skin...

"Lie back," she whispers to Franco.

His eyes widen for a moment, then go dark and smoky.

"This is supposed to be about you," he says.

She twirls the rose slowly against her cheek. "How do you know this isn't about me?"

He gives her a slow, sexy smile and does as she says, lowers himself to the bed, stretching languidly...

She kneels at his side and lets her eyes roam over him — his long, lean, gently-muscled body, golden skin lapped by flickering candlelight, his soft hair fanning out around his head. He's fully erect now, completely unselfconscious, watching her with open desire and the slightest glint of a dare in his eyes.

She touches the rose to his lips, and the artist in her appraises the sight, noting color, shape, texture... she leans down and replaces the rose with her mouth, wanting to taste him. He parts his lips for her tongue, and soft pressure quickly intensifies in heat and hunger, his hand slipping behind her head... but she pulls back and sits up. There's plenty of time for that.

As though of its own accord, the rose drifts slowly over his throat, his shoulders, his chest... and she notes that everywhere it touches, he shivers, sighs, relaxes further as though releasing years of tension. When it brushes his nipple, he jerks and hisses... and it's a revelation to Elizabeth. She lowers her mouth, licks the soft skin until it tightens beneath her tongue. He groans and grabs her head, so wildly responsive that she sucks, rims the nipple with her teeth the way he did to her... and it seems to drive him crazy. She pinches his other nipple, rolls it between two fingers...

"Fuck... oh,  _fuck_ ," he growls, arches up from the floor, and when she notices that he's reaching for his cock, she pulls away, breaking all contact. He drops back heavily, gasping. Dizzy with her own power she says, in a husky voice she barely recognizes—

"You like that."

He swallows hard, laughs breathlessly. "You sure give as good as you get...,"

She smiles — proud, satisfied — and resumes caressing the rose over the contours of his ribs, taut stomach, pelvis. She marvels at his acute sensitivity, notes every minute reaction... every spasm, stretch and sigh, each time he grits his teeth, reaches for her or clenches his fists. She's loving learning him in this way... and is deeply, primally aroused.

"Spread your legs," she says, and he does, with a helpless groan. She drifts the rose up the inside of his thighs, glorying in his near-convulsion as she guides it delicately over and around his testicles, and finally up the length of his straining cock, and down... up again to his tip, twirling the rose slowly as he thrusts and leaves the glisten of pre-cum on the petals.

Her own body is on fire and finally it's too much. She  _needs..._ and suddenly grasps his thick shaft, bends and circles his tip with her wet, hungry tongue. She hears a guttural moan and the thud of his head knocking back hard onto the concrete beneath the makeshift bed.

" _Fuck_...," he whines, then laughs, and she laughs at his laughter until they're both breathless and trembling.

She curls herself down by his hip so she can watch his face she as gently pumps him; he's flushed, chest heaving, one arm folded beneath his head, eyes hot, hooded and locked on her mouth. She feels a kick of self-consciousness; somehow she expects that he'll stop her, explain that she's too maternal or delicate for this task, but instead he looks half-crazed, desperate for more...

The power of the moment surges through her. She could make him beg, she could deny him, or she could give him pleasure _._ It's no contest — her body, mind and heart are overwhelmed by him, are driving her to lift him out of himself, to make him  _happy_. Without breaking eye contact, she takes him between her lips and slowly engulfs as much of him as she can take, wrapping her hands around the rest...

His groan is long, shuddering and soul-deep. He reaches down, weaves his fingers into her hair and whispers, "You're so fucking beautiful, Elizabeth. You're a goddess."

She smiles around him, and goes to work.

It's not at all what she expected, given the misery and intensity of the morning, all the tears and missteps. Franco smiles often, laughs freely... tells her what he wants and what feels good to him. And once she gets over feeling vaguely insulted by that, she realizes what a boon it is; there's no fumbling, no time wasted guessing. And he says exactly what's on his mind, no matter how crude or direct, encourages her to explore him, touch places on his body she thought were off-limits on men. In short, he's  _fun_. She's had all kinds of unforced sex — passionate, loving, routine, mournful, guilty, obliging — but she's not sure she's ever had fun sex. And definitely not adventurous sex, which she suspects is just around the corner. She honestly hasn't known what she's been missing.

She's sucking him in a wet, steady rhythm now and stroking a particular spot on his perineum he'd guided her to. His eyes are closed, hips rocking gently, hand resting on her head. Her power over him is intoxicating and absolute... and she knows enough about him now that she can choose her moment...

She slides her palm over his chest, and very deliberately pinches his nipple. His hips buck, his cock leaps in her mouth. She does it again and twists, sucks him harder, faster, presses the spot between his legs mercilessly, and within seconds he's keening, hand fisting her hair, his entire body going rigid, and he comes with a choked cry that shoots right to her clit. She stays with him until he's finished, until the waves recede and he drops back bonelessly onto their bed, his hand slipping heavily from her hair.

Her mouth is hot from him, her body tingling like a live-wire. She licks his softening length, listens to his low sounds of satisfaction and ease... then she lets him draw her up his body for a deep, languid kiss.

He takes her head in his hands and holds her up and away from him, examines her face like he's trying to memorize it, or solve an enduring mystery. Then his expression darkens and he seems as lost and unsure as he'd been earlier.

"All this  _feeling_...," he says softly, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. "It hurts... and it doesn't. It really is almost too much."

"Constant exposure," she says with a gentle smile.

His face breaks open like the sun through clouds.

"Constant exposure," he repeats, and gathers her into his arms to rest.

_**To be continued...** _


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

_**Note: Here's a short, possibly inappropriate, possibly over the top bit of #friz smut to chase away the darkness...** _

* * *

 

But Franco doesn't rest long. Elizabeth is wet, tense, suffused with vivid memories of him...

"You're on fire," he whispers into her hair.

He cradles her head, pushes up onto his elbow, and she watches, mesmerized, as he licks his middle and forefingers. With no preamble, he moves his hand between her legs and begins stroking her... gently at first, exploring. She sighs, yields to him in every way... thighs parting, head dropping back, eyes slipping closed...

"Look at you," he murmurs with open wonder. He increases his speed and pressure, fingers dancing, slipping inside her... and she's too primed, it's too soon... she tries to hold back so he'll keep doing this amazing thing he's doing, but the explosive surge overtakes her and she has no choice but to ride it, hips rising, hands grabbing for him and as it crests, she cries out... and falls back with soft whimpers.

But he doesn't move away. Her eyes flutter open to find him watching her. "Not done yet," he says. He massages her then, with his entire hand, slowly, deeply, his fierce gaze never leaving her face.

"Don't close your eyes."

"So many rules," she tries to laugh, but it comes out as a gasp. She realizes her fingernails are digging into his wrist but she can't seem to let go...

He leans down, his tongue grazes her lips. "Not a rule... a request." She yearns toward him, opens her mouth... but he pulls away and rubs her faster, harder, his eyes as intense as his touch.

She struggles to do as he asks, though every cell is calling her down, insisting that she focus on his movements, on the pleasure and building release. She's still vibrating from her last orgasm, and he's both reviving it and creating powerful new sensations that amplify one another, intertwine like ripples on a pond... widening, deepening, making her writhe against his hand. She wants to stay locked into his eyes, into the fervent heat of them, but finally she can't as her neck arches back, body goes rigid and she climaxes in a series of slow, exquisite waves...

"God, I love watching you come...," he says from a great distance... even though he's holding her close, fingers drifting over her stomach, her breasts. She's limp, quivering... and strangely unreal. She becomes aware of his erection straining against her hip — it sparks instant hunger. Without a thought, without a word, she does what she has to do — she rolls him onto his back and straddles him. She's so wet she sheathes him almost effortlessly, absorbs his shudder and sharp groan into herself. Thoroughly impaled, intoxicated, she leans over him, grabs his long, luxurious hair in twisting fingers and kisses him hard. He moans into her mouth, folds her in his arms, and when she feels his body surrender beneath her... she loses a bit of her mind. She breaks the kiss, braces her hands on his chest and sets about riding him frantically, forcing from both of them sounds that are barely human...

Gradually a primitive need ignites deep inside her — it's always been there, is something she's learned to live with, but now... now...

She rears back with a strangled cry. She's crazed, slick with sweat, using him hard...

But his eyes are black and scorching, fingers digging like claws into her hips... and his teeth are glinting sharp and animalistic, hair dark-gold and wild. "Don't stop. Fuck me, Elizabeth," he growls, but she can barely hear him over this  _need_ , howling inside her now — an ancient torment, once unreachable beneath the wreckage of history and shame and terror and regret... but it's accessible somehow, there's a chance to finally, fully reclaim herself...

And she takes it. She bears down hard on his magnificent cock, glorying in the stretch, needing the fire to burn away any fear and resistance still lurking in the shadows. She contracts around him and touches herself with both hands — the contours hot, slick and swollen — strokes, presses, gives only to herself as she rides him, dizzy with the miracle of feeling so fucking  _free._  She brings herself to the edge, stays there as long as she can, and finally her body seizes, jerks heavenward... and she explodes into bliss, like showers of brightest white...

Eventually she finds that she's pitched forward onto Franco's chest, that she's alternately moaning, laughing and gasping curse words... and that he is motionless beneath her. She sits up, convulsing with aftershocks. He looks dazed.

"Did you come?" she says breathlessly... surprised, yet not, by her frankness.

" _Oh yeah_ ," he says, with a slow smile. "Yes. Absolutely."

She laughs. "I'm sorry I missed it."

"I'm not. It would have been a crime punishable by death to distract you from that." His eyes slowly, lovingly scan her face. "You've never been more stunning, Elizabeth. You're radiant. You're radiating. You're radioactive." He pulls her down, wraps his arms tight around her. "How do you feel?"

She lays her hand over his heart, her cheek atop that, and snuggles into the love and warmth and perfect fit of him. "Happy," she says.

_**To be continued...** _


	11. Chapter 11

There's no shape to the time that follows... only the shrinking candles mark its passage as Elizabeth and Franco explore and play together. Light caresses may turn to tickles... or may become desperate with need. A casual kiss may end there... or deepen until they're savoring, then devouring, then rocking together, swallowing each other's moans and cries, each bathing in the sweat, scent and flavors of the other... until they part, reluctant and exhausted, but never  _not_  touching...

 _We should shower_ , one says...

 _Not yet,_  says the other...

 _What time is it_ , one says...

 _Shhh, it doesn't matter_ , says the other...

_I'm hungry..._

_Me too..._

So they raid the still life Franco had arranged on the table. Sitting crosslegged on their bed, they feed each other green grapes, bites of apple, cold chamomile tea... but not the toast. They decide to find a way to preserve it, frame it as a memento...

And they talk about art. Franco's knowledge is encyclopedic, and it challenges Elizabeth to dig deep, to recall things she'd learned long ago, or recently read, or heard on an art podcast she subscribes to... news and tidbits she'd had to file away because there'd been no one to discuss them with. He tends to make sweeping statements, grand pronouncements about artists, movements, theories, techniques... and sometimes she finds herself disagreeing... mildly at first, but then with growing conviction as her mind engages, and she finds herself arguing excitedly, stretching long-dormant facets of her personality like nearly atrophied muscles. He brings up the Vermeer controversy — did the master use a camera obscura, and if so, was that cheating?...

 _Yes,_   _of course it's cheating_ , she says...

 _So you, as a nurse, would reject an advance in technology_ , he counters...

It's  _on_  then, a heated knock-down-drag-out about artists versus technicians, what makes an artist, and who decides... and Elizabeth is up on her knees, gesturing madly, interrupting when he says something clearly ludicrous. She's grateful that he doesn't condescend, doesn't give an inch if he thinks she's wrong... that he smiles at her with open delight the few times her logic forces him to concede a point... that he doesn't gloat or needle when he has the upper hand...

They finally agree to disagree... not because they've exhausted their arguments but because the needs of their bodies have surpassed the needs of their minds, and they can no longer keep their hands off each other. They grapple, fall together... and even the few moments it takes him to push inside her feels like an eternity...

#

When they eventually take a bathroom break, Franco insists she go first. She feels his eyes hot on her as she scuffs across the room in the sneakers and smock she still, ridiculously, hasn't managed to shed. There hasn't been a compelling reason yet... and despite her feelings of intimacy and power and euphoria, she's in no hurry to get completely naked. She's vaguely worried about what that might mean until she switches on the light, closes the door and sees her reflection in the mirror: her hair is insanely tousled, skin flushed and glowing, every muscle relaxed — the face of utter sexual satiation. She's never seen this Elizabeth before and smiles at her with wonder, leans in to touch her swollen lips... when her attention is grabbed by the glass-enclosed shower stall in the corner. Her mind leaps into action, imagines the two of them in there, steam rising as he lifts her effortlessly, as she wraps her legs around his waist, her back sliding on smooth glass with each of his powerful thrusts...

She looks back at herself, at the deepening blush, feels the low, raw growl of lust in her belly. She hears Franco's words from a lifetime ago, voicing her own once-crippling thoughts...

_Moms don't do that..._

And even now...  _even now_  a wave of shame washes over her. She swallows hard, leans both hands on the sink and admonishes herself as she waits for the wave to recede...

She's found freedom in this place... to do, say,  _be_  exactly what she wants, to take and receive joyfully, with no hesitation and fewer inhibitions than she'd ever thought possible. There's no shame in that. In fact, it's thrilling, after what seems like a lifetime of insecurity and passivity, of accepting scraps until she believed that's all she deserved. Now... now she has a smorgasbord. Yet there's a feeling of free-fall, a fear of looking down... a fear of what lies beyond the walls of this magical place...

But she won't think about that now. She straightens up, sets her jaw and goes about the serious business of cleaning up.

When she comes out, Franco is standing right there, waiting for her. "I missed you," he growls and pulls her into a ferocious, full-bodied kiss. Dwarfed by his size and strength, so conditioned now to be turned on by everything he does, says, is... that she simply melts into him, melts away...

He gradually lets her go and licks his lips. "Mmm, minty," he says with a low chuckle.

He's yanked her so suddenly out of her anxious near-gloom that she's left reeling when he disappears into the bathroom... her doubts and worries, her self-imposed  _should'_ s and  _cannot'_ s no more than a pile of dust at her feet. This man may never have experienced genuine love before, but he's certainly teaching her a thing or two about the enjoyment of it. She inhales, gets as much air into her lungs as she can, then more until she's ready to burst, holds it, then lets it out with a whoosh and a giggle.

Happy. Yes, she's  _happy,_  dammit!

Fortified, she takes her time going back to the bed, wanders the studio in the low light sifting through the shades, lets her fingers trail over the things that are his, objects he's handled, that matter to him. She reaches the easel she'd moved aside to make room for the bed and realizes she's managed to avoid painting here twice now. Her imagination wanders... how would it be to use his body as her canvas, to fill her brush with color, to stroke it over his smooth skin and mark him, claim him the way he once marked her with charcoal... how would he react, what would they create together...?

When he returns, she's still standing at the easel, lost in her reverie. She smiles, warms, expects him to come up behind her, slip his arms around her... but he doesn't. Instead, he seems tense, restless, and prowls the edges of the studio, naked, with the stealth and grace of a jungle cat. And like a fellow predator, Elizabeth's eyes follow him as he moves in and out of the shadows beyond the ring of candlelight. His mysterious distance only serves to heighten her senses, to make her want him back in that bed...

But he halts on the opposite side of the room and watches her with an expression so strange her breath catches. He starts to speak, stops, inhales and starts again.

"Goya did a series of paintings late in life, on the walls of his house. The Black Paintings..."

It's a jarring turn... made all the more so when he doesn't continue. But Elizabeth accepts that this is important, that he's headed somewhere. She scours her memory, sees images of dark, distorted figures. "Yes...," she nods. "Nightmare scenes, if I remember. Madness and demons and—"

"—We never locked that," Franco interrupts, glaring at the door. He stalks over and pulls it open almost angrily. She winces at the sudden flood of bright light, but sees him reach out and pluck off the foam core sign he'd hung there to welcome her. As though trying to cover for this abrupt, bizarre move, he glances at her and says lightly, "Don't want any other Elizabeths wandering in. I can barely keep up with the one I have." His attempt at a smile fails. He closes the door again and locks it firmly.

She hugs the smock around her, a tightness forming in her chest. "Franco—,"

"—I didn't want you to see this," he blurts out, holding the sign in front of him like a shield; the words  _Come In Elizabeth_  blaze red, even in the dim light. "I knew you'd be here alone—well I  _hoped_  you'd be here—all day, and maybe you'd snoop. I'd snoop. But I figured you wouldn't give the sign a second look." He's jerking it around as he speaks... she's confused, but notices something fluttering down from the back.

"Franco—,"

"So, when I lived in Madrid," he rushes on. "I'd spend hours at the Prado, deciphering The Black Paintings. I may have moved there for them... I don't know." He swallows hard, shakes his head. "God, I was so sick. I was convinced Goya had put clues in them just for me. I had notebooks full of... oh,  _Jesus—_ "

He bites off the end of the sentence, face haunted, and she struggles to fit the pieces together, to find a way into his anguish in order to ease it.

"It makes a kind of sense, Franco," she says gently. "Those images, Goya's mental state... I think you were trying to understand yourself, even in the midst of your illness. Maybe you were looking for a parallel... a reflection of yourself in the world..."

"No, Elizabeth, it doesn't make sense!" he shouts, eyes flashing. He seems about to spin out, but with visible effort he reins himself in again... for her sake, she knows. "Okay, maybe, yes," he says, low and tight. "But it's like everything else I did... it made perfect sense at the time, it seemed  _necessary_... and looking back, I see the twisted, ironclad logic... but now... the  _feelings_... and how do I apologize for any of it? It's like I caused an avalanche and here I come with a fucking teaspoon, trying to dig everybody out. Too little, too fucking late."

She's beside him now, heart pounding, her hand on his arm. Manic energy is boiling off him like steam.

"Show me," she says softly.

He clutches the sign tighter. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. "It was so beautiful... but it was a lie."

His arm slackens beneath her hand. Barely breathing, she takes the sign and turns it over. Taped to the back is her drawing of him. The face she'd created, the face that had enchanted and obsessed her for a week, has been obliterated by thick, jagged black lines, dug so deeply into the paper they've nearly shredded it. But it's not just lines — a face begins to emerge. Instead of an intimate smile and tender eyes, the features are warped and demonic, eyes insane, mouth a slavering gash. A monster. Franco's self-portrait.

Revolted, devastated, she reels under a cold slap of shock as if something vital inside her is dying. She flashes on the moment his mask had seemed to slip earlier — the vicious self-loathing she'd glimpsed beneath. Well here it is, made manifest, and she can  _feel_  the savage hatred that went into the creation of this thing... but just who was the focus of that hate... him or  _her_?

More questions chase one another through her mind, but she's not ready to give voice to any of them. She holds the drawing weakly at arm's length, searching for something neutral to say... anything to distance herself from the heartbreak...

"Yes, definitely Goya," she says, thin as rice paper. "I can see his influence..."

"I'm so sorry, Elizabeth." His voice is soaked with grief. She glances up at him — can't bear to do more than that — and sees that his eyes are wet.

She shoves the drawing back at him, walks stiffly away and braces herself against the utility sink. The making of that portrait, the sensations of it, surge through her vividly — the feel of the charcoal in her fingers, the struggle to capture a precious essence of him, the euphoria of flow, his hands and mouth on her body... the joyful, terrifying reclamation of so much of herself that had been lost — it was all in that portrait.

And now, to see what it provoked in him... how he abused it... destroyed it...

"That drawing meant a lot to me," she says, and that simple understatement makes her want to sob.

"I know," he says, soft as a prayer.

"I don't think you do." She's gripping the edge of the sink so hard her fingers are hurting, knuckles going white. "I need some answers, Franco."

He lowers the sign to his side as though deliberately leaving himself unprotected, vulnerable. "Yes."

"You did...  _that..._ because I walked out on you?"

He pulls and releases a deep breath. "Yes."

She nods, recalling confessions, moments of insight. "You told me earlier that when you feel too much, you overreact, you  _do_  things. Is this what you were referring to?"

"An example."

"But that was the extent of it. You didn't... want to do anything else."

"No. Of course not, Elizabeth." His tone strains toward her, but he keeps his distance.

She's able to look directly at him now. "But what you did do... it scares you?"

His face is tight with pain. "Yeah, it does. How easy it was to slip back into the old patterns... the violence..."

She understands about old patterns, about lashing out and shame and the fear of falling back. "You said you didn't want me to see it... so why did you keep it... why didn't you get rid of it?"

He blinks at her like it's obvious. "You made it. It was your work."

She laughs, hollowly, with a distinct note of hysteria. He looks confused... then laughs too, as the irony seems to sink in. The tension between them eases a bit, their eyes find each other and soften. It would be the easiest thing in the world to move into his arms, to go back, to forget...

"Franco... I have to know why you showed me this. Why  _now_ , when we were growing so close?"

He hesitates, shifts his weight. "I felt like... it was in the way, like I had his big, dark thing I was hiding from you." His eyes fill with tears. "I don't want any secrets between us, Elizabeth."

She fights back tears of her own... because that's nowhere near the truth, though he may be genuinely unaware of it. She decides to let it go for now, straightens up and lifts her chin.

"Well... did it help, at least? Did it make you feel better to get that out of your system?"

"Get it out...," he repeats vaguely.

"The rage, the hurt... did you feel it less? Was it cathartic?"

He seems baffled, stares at her for a moment, jaw working. "What I...  _do_... has never been about making anyone feel better, Elizabeth. Least of all myself. It's about...," he drops his eyes to the floor as though the right words are written there. "It's about breathing life into evil."

She nods. Now  _that_  sounds like something he's spent a lifetime believing. She pushes away from the sink and goes to him, resists the heat and energy of his body as she takes the sign from him. He watches her, his expression soft, anxious, but so full of hope...

She rips the tattered drawing from the back of the sign, turns away and takes it to the bed. She seats herself in the middle of the ring of candles.

"Bring me the biggest bowl you've got," she says.

_**To be continued...** _


	12. Chapter 12

Franco stands by the door, brow furrowed, silently watching her. She watches him right back until he moves off into shadows.

She takes a deep breath and looks down at his self-portrait. The ugliness of the image repels her, but as she holds it away, candlelight shows through the back, and she's surprised to see that her portrait of him hasn't been completely obliterated — traces are visible between his black strokes like a captive through prison bars. The artist in her is struck by their wildly contrasting styles — her subtlety versus his ruthlessness — and by the way the two distinct energies are interwoven on the page. Yet one emotion is clearly dominant, and now that her initial shock has faded, she's able to feel that emotion vividly...

"This isn't evil... this is  _pain_...," she murmurs.

_I'm so sorry..._

She's startled to realize he's returned and is standing over her... and that a towel is slung low around his hips now, covering him. He bends down and places a large stone bowl in front of her. "I used this to grind pigments, back in the day," he says tightly.

She looks inside. It's empty but for smudges of color, a bit of sparkle — the remnants of common rocks and minerals he'd ground into powders. He would then have mixed them with linseed oil to create his own paints. She's not at all surprised he'd wanted that kind of control.

"Perfect for what you have in mind," he says.

"And what do I have in mind?" She nods to the spot next to her on the bed, inviting him to join her... but he moves away and stands silhouetted against the window shades, chin low, hands fisted.

"Transformation," he says. "You think if you burn that picture you can change reality, and something new will rise from the ashes."

She's taken aback, and a bit embarrassed — yes, that's pretty much what she had in mind. "That's a very poetic way to put it," she says.

"Well, it's a poetic notion. A poetic, naïve notion."

She bristles at that. "You're calling me naïve?"

His voice comes low and reverential from the shadows. "I'm calling you... flawless, Elizabeth. Unblemished. Way too good to conceive of what else a psycho might have ground to powder in that bowl."

She recoils with a cold shock of horror as images of blood and bone flare in her mind... but it quickly gives way to a bottomless ache. Only a short time ago, they were lying right here, holding each other, learning how to love each other... so secure, so sure... but now all that has fallen away...

"Will you ever trust me again, Franco?" she says sadly.

The question hangs in the air for many beats before he responds.

"Why..." he stops, clears his throat. "Why would you say that..."

"Because you're testing me. In spite of everything we've said and done today—"

"—I'm not testing you. I'm... I'm—"

"You are," she says gently. "I have three kids, remember? I know when I'm being tested."

He stares at her, eyes wide, body stiff. He seems utterly thrown by the suggestion.

"Think about it," she continues. "Why did you suddenly decide to show me a drawing you said you never wanted me to see? You said you didn't want secrets... okay, so is that why you brought me this particular bowl and started dropping grisly innuendos about your past? I think you're looking for my breaking point... you want to see if I'll run again."

Even with so much distance between them, his long silence seems to reach for her, alive with tension and unspoken thoughts.

"Okay...," he says at last. "And?"

" _And_  what I said before... I'm not going anywhere. Unless you make it impossible for me to stay."

He moves slowly, unsteadily toward her until she can see him clearly in the glow of candlelight — he has the shaky, ashen look of a man standing on a window ledge.

"The thing is, Elizabeth...," he says softly. "If it  _is_  gonna happen, I need it to happen now, you know? While I can still find a way to... cope."

Her eyes fill with quick tears and she reaches for his hand... but he pulls it away. Although he's emerged from the shadows, he seems insubstantial as a shadow himself... reminding her once again of how much power she has over him.

"What brought all this on, Franco?"

He shrugs away from her, doesn't meet her gaze. "Let's call it... a moment of clarity. This time with you, all these hours... it's like I've been under a spell. You've cast a spell, Elizabeth... over me, and this place and this day and I've been able to forget so much... you do that for me. That's the gift you give me." He crouches down next to her, takes the drawing from her hands and glares at it with such intense loathing she thinks he might rip it to shreds.

"You asked,  _why now_. Well, I saw myself in the bathroom mirror... satisfied...  _happy..."_

She nods, a smile of recognition forming, and almost says,  _me too_... but he continues.

"And that's insane. You can't want me, Elizabeth. You can't want  _this_ ," he snarls and hurls the drawing to the floor. "I don't fucking deserve you and I never will."

As he starts to shove to his feet, something breaks inside her... a dam of compassion and patience and guilt that's been holding back a tidal wave of frustration.

"God, stop it!" she cries. "You have got to stop this!" She scrambles to her knees and snatches up the drawing. "You said my portrait was a lie. This," she shouts, shaking the tattered paper at him. " _This_  is the lie, this warped image you're clinging to! You're not a  _monster_ , and you don't  _breathe life into evil_  with your work. All lies! What about the painting you made of me, Franco? A monster couldn't have done that! You  _create_  every day of your life... not with paint, but with who you are in the world, how eagerly you help, how well you love... and what you're creating is beautiful and hopeful and I want to create it with you, I  _do_ , but you have to  _stop_  this... you just, you have to  _stop this_...  _please_..."

She doesn't want to be collapsing, or choking on tears... what she wants is to  _reach_  him. She half expects him to pull her into his arms to comfort her, as always... but he's hunched up, studying the floor.

"So... just get over it, huh?" he says dully.

She gapes at him. " _That's_  what you heard me say?"

He grumbles something incoherent, doesn't continue.

Tears are hot on her cheeks and she bats them away, tries again. "What I'm asking is that you... not wallow. Stop defining yourself by the past. Can you do that? Can you at least  _try_  to let it go?"

He grabs the drawing back from her, moves stiffly to the far corner of the blanket and sinks down. "You don't think I  _try_?" he mutters. "All I do is try. But then something happens to trigger it all over again. It's fucking exhausting." He slowly tears a long strip of paper from the drawing like he's peeling a banana, holds it over the nearest candle until the corner catches and the flame creeps up the edge. When it reaches his fingers, he drops it into the stone bowl.

"Yippee, there go all my demons." He swings his head toward her. "Isn't that how this is supposed to work?"

She sighs and pulls the smock tight around herself, torn between regret and irritation. "Don't mock me, okay?" she says.

"Not mocking. I wish it were so simple." He slowly tears off another strip. "I wish I could get all the nasties out of my system with the stroke of a paintbrush... or with this here fire magic." He lights the paper, drops it into the bowl, watches it flare, burn and fade to embers.

And she watches him. As the heavy emotional dust settles, she's able to really see him — the slumped posture, the deep pout — and she realizes that he looks exactly like one of her kids in mid-snit.

"Wow," she says. "I totally forgot how annoying you can be."

He looks up sharply. "Really...? That's what you've got for me?"

She blows out a cleansing breath and leans in. "Okay. Let's back way up and look at this rationally. First of all, in case I didn't make myself clear — I didn't leave because I was afraid of  _you,_  Franco. I left because I was afraid of repeating past mistakes, of getting hurt, of setting my boys up for another disappointment, of losing myself in you..."

"That's a shitload of fear," he grumbles.

"Tell me about it. But mostly I left because I was  _feeling_  too much and I didn't know how to deal with it. Sound familiar...?"

He shifts his weight and passes a finger through the candle flame, leaving a ring of soot on his skin.

"Vaguely..."

"And secondly — yes, I dumped you. I hurt you and you got angry. So you  _defaced a drawing_. That's all. Believe me, Franco, when I get dumped, I want to do a hell of a lot worse than that."

He lifts his head and scowls at her. "Now who's mocking? You know there's more to it — that wasn't just any drawing."

"That's right. And that's why you chose it. Maybe by showing it to me, you weren't only testing me, maybe you wanted to hurt me a little... get some revenge." She raises a hand when he stars to protest. "The  _point_  is, you didn't do anything evil or violent, you didn't inflict any permanent damage. I'm sorry, but this is  _such_  an overreaction—"

"— _Hey_!" he barks. "You're the one who got all, ' _Bring me the Big Bowl, Franco_ '!"

She's caught off guard and laughs before she can stop herself... but quickly regains her composure. "Yes. I did do that," she says. "That thing needs to be gone from our lives, and burning it is a perfectly valid solution. What's  _not_  valid," she tries to continue, determined to give him the reality check he so desperately needs... but her laughter marked an irreparable shift... a thawing between them. She can feel his warm eyes on her now, asking for a type of attention she's not quite ready to give him. Instead she stalls for time to recenter herself, very deliberately unrolls and re-rolls the sleeves of her smock, brushes off a stray thread... then just gives up.

" _You_  are a champion sulker," she says, biting back another laugh. "You're worse than Aiden."

"Am not," he mock-pouts, and reaches out to her, eyes misty.

"Are too." She takes his hand, squeezes harder than she means to.

They sigh in unison, lock eyes and exchange tender, regretful smiles.

"I hear you," he says, ducking his head. "I do. I'll try harder."

She nods, caresses the back of his hand. "Okay. But you need to talk to me before things get to this point, okay? I love you... you know? I want to help."

He's melting under her touch, eyes slipping closed. "Just keep doing what you're doing."

They release each other's hands with a final squeeze. She notices the partially-shredded drawing in his lap, snarling up at him like a rabid curse. Struck by its power all over again, she grabs it away from him as an act of compassion, angrily tears off a piece and holds it over the nearest candle until it ignites. She closes her eyes; when the heat becomes unbearable, she drops the flaming thing into the bowl and opens her eyes again to watch it burn.

"Tell me you didn't just make a wish," he says.

"More like... a banishment."

"What did you banish?"

"Demons," she says.

He huffs a laugh and slowly shakes his head, long hair swaying, eyes scanning her face with wonder as though she alone holds the key to a better universe.

"I love you, Elizabeth. I  _love_  you. Even when I hated you, I loved you."

She moves to his side, risks running her fingers through his hair, and he collapses against her with a deep sigh. She's moved by his reaction, feels peace settle over her — she hadn't realized how much she'd missed him.

"I love how you see the world," he says, pulling her close, nuzzling into her neck. "I love how you see me. I want it to be true."

With her bare foot, she pushes the drawing toward him. "Here. Make a wish."

He laughs, groans, but indulges her, picks up and starts to tear the paper... but he suddenly recoils. "Hell no. Not that piece."

She looks down, sees nothing at first... but gradually she makes out a faint charcoal eye peering up at her from between the prison bars of jagged black lines. Its expression is soft, tender.

"Yes... this is how I see you," she murmurs, caressing the image like a loved-one. "And it  _is_  true. You recognize him, don't you?"

He lifts his eyes to her — they mirror the one in her portrait. The earlier shadow of pain seems to be gone.

"I didn't know him," he says softly. "Not before you. Then thought I lost him... until today."

She strokes his face and smiles. "So maybe today can be a fresh start." She lowers her hands to the drawing and continues the tear he'd started...

"Hey, no...," he protests, touching her wrist to stop her, but she keeps going, straight through the jagged black lines and the faint gray eye...

"It's okay," she says softly. "We'll make other drawings."

As she lights the strip of paper, Franco's eyes lose focus and he seems to slip away inside himself and into his circus. "Creation and destruction," he muses softly. "Destruction and creation... circle of life. And who knows what'll rise from the ashes..."

"Something different," she says. "Like us."

She drops the burning paper into the bowl, and together they watch their portraits curl and disappear into flame.

**_To be continued..._ **


	13. Chapter 13

Elizabeth pulls and releases a cleansing breath, surprised to find that she feels lighter, a bit less burdened now that the strip of charcoal-covered paper has been reduced to ash.

"So was that another banishment?" Franco says, stroking her hair slowly, reverently, like it's the most blissful thing in the world to be allowed to touch her again.

She nods and leans into his hand. "Goodbye to... delusions."

"Hmmm... nothing but clear-eyed honesty from now on, huh?"

"Nothing but."

"Are you sure that's what you want?

The hint of darkness in his tone makes her pause.

"Why... is there... more?"

"There's always more, Elizabeth," he says softly. His fingers move to her throat in a tender caress. "Can you live with that?"

She looks up at him... so close, so beautiful and loving in the flickering candlelight...

"No, this is not a test," he says with a tender smile.

She drags her eyes away from him to the drawing in her lap, tears off another piece, lights it and drops it into the bowl.

"Banishing doubt?" he says, with a trace of apprehension.

She takes his large hand in her small one, turns it, and kisses his palm. " _Self_ -doubt" she says. "I need to believe that I'm strong enough to handle whatever you throw at me, Franco. I need you to believe it, too."

He watches her for a moment as though transfixed, then inhales sharply and straightens up. "Okay. Gimme that."

She laughs as he grabs the drawing, peels off a strip with great flourish and dangles it over the candle.

"Banish my negative energy, oh, wise and mighty Fire Gods, I beseech thee..." he intones, all playful drama. But as he watches the paper sway and dance above the heat, the act seems to fade and he grows pensive. "Oh, what the hell," he grumbles. He dips the paper into the flame and drops it quickly into the stone bowl, his lips moving as if in prayer.

"Well?" she says, intrigued by the change.

"There goes, oh, about zero-point-one percent of my shit."

She snuggles into the warmth of his side to comfort both him, but selfishly relieved to be close to him again, connected, breathing his scent.

"It's a start," she says.

He sighs. "Yeah, well, I think we're gonna need a bigger drawing."

"Or we could both use smaller pieces..."

And they continue in that way, light-heartedly at first, taking turns tearing and burning bits of paper, assigning silly labels to each one... but slowly, as the smoke rises and shrouds them, the game takes on a strange solemnity, an air of ritual. Red flame licks their faces as they kneel over the bowl and begin to name their demons in earnest, invoking them in low voices — their guilts, doubts, fears — banishing them one by one to the elements. And as they do, the heat activates years of accumulated grit in the bowl, releasing an acrid odor that seems appropriate, given the ills the two of them are depositing into it...

And gradually, as the confessions intensify, so does the risk of exposure...

"Elizabeth," Franco says, voice hushed, strained. "I know you want honesty, and I really do believe you're strong enough, but there are things..."

She lays a hand on his, oddly relieved that he's embracing this strange rite of theirs. She can't know the power of what haunts him, or the real depth of his suffering, but she hopes that the simple act of facing, naming and releasing is easing the burden, just a little...

"It's okay," she says. "Someday."

He leans down and kisses her gently. "Someday."

So they continue together in silence, exorcising their private demons, side by side.

For her part, Elizabeth feels safe and supported enough to allow old guilts to surface — cruelties she's inflicted, lies and selfish choices she can no longer justify. She tries to accept responsibility and forgive herself for each of them... but some won't budge. Others are easier, and she's able to imagine letting them go and watching their essences vanish into smoke...

But she's drawn out of her reverie by Franco beside her. His movements have grown frantic — tearing, lighting, dropping... tearing, lighting, dropping, with barely a pause in between, as though he believes there's genuine redemption to be found here, but very little time. And he's begun whispering to himself; she can make out the occasional name, a location... and she realizes with a jolt that he's cataloging his crimes.

She braces for her involuntary reaction... the old judgements, the flare of revulsion... and is surprised to feel only sympathy. She looks down into her lap at what's left of his hideous self-portrait, tries to summon the horror of it again, the rawness in her bones, but she finds only sadness. It's a wonderful, welcome change, but she'll have to examine it later — right now, Franco is wincing and groaning, grinding his teeth... because he's holding his hand directly over the dancing candle flame.

Every instinct screams at her to knock his hand away... but she grits her own teeth and waits, knowing that he needs this, for whatever reason. A moment later he gasps and pulls his hand away on his own. His entire body sags and he closes his eyes, sighs... and his face melts into an expression of sheer ecstasy.

Elizabeth thought she'd seen every possible emotion in that face, but this is new, private... and wildly erotic.

She looks away quickly, feeling like a voyeur, caught in a swirl of confusion. Her mind is still filled with her own guilty memories, her blood is humming with adrenaline... and as she struggles to get her bearings, she notices that he's watching her with eyes so intense, so scalding that she's instantly wet. He raises his hand to her face and she sees the black streak of soot the flame left on his palm...

"I need you," he says, deep and raw. His craving is so powerful it's like a disturbance in the air, prickling her skin, sucking the air from her lungs. His mouth clamps down on hers and before she knows what's happening he grabs the collar of her smock, tears the threadbare fabric down her arms and off, finally off, and hurls it aside with a curse. She's stunned, wants to ease back, but this new aggression is thrilling, breathtaking. He's Franco, yet not, as though the ritual had the power to transform him after all. But that's always the way with him — just when she thinks she's close to figuring him out, she realizes she knows nothing at all...

_There's always more, Elizabeth... can you live with that..._

The remnant of his self-portrait leers up from her lap, then flutters harmlessly to the floor as the man himself lifts her away from the stone bowl and lays her on her back. His eyes openly rake her now-naked body. An ancient, defensive impulse tells her to cross her arms over her chest... but his hair is pouring over her skin and he's growling, "You're so fucking beautiful," and his hands are huge, sliding possessively over her breasts, her stomach, the curves of her hips... then down her thighs, her calves... stopping only when he reaches her sneakers. They're so absurd in this moment that she stifles a nervous laugh and cranes her neck to watch him quickly untie and remove each one, peel her small white socks from her feet... and, in a bit of deliberate care that touches her deeply, he takes the time to place the sneakers neatly side-by-side on the edge of the blanket and tuck the socks inside. He looks up at her then with an affection so soft and amused that she has no idea why she's begun trembling violently, or why her mouth is like cotton. After all they've done to and with each other, it seems ridiculous to feel so damned  _virginal_ now...

She suddenly recalls the one time she modeled in the nude for a figure drawing class. When she'd first taken off her robe before all those probing, appraising eyes, she'd felt exactly this way — utterly exposed and vulnerable...

Yet he's treating her like a priceless treasure now, drawing her toes slowly into his obscenely soft mouth, then licking her instep, brushing his full lips over her ankle. His goatee tickles her calf as he moves up to  _the soleus muscle, the bony landmark of the patella, vastus medialis..._

She shoves away the distracting words and concentrates instead on the way he's hooking her legs over his broad shoulders, the strength of his arms cradling her hips as he settles himself between her thighs, his eyes slipping closed...

The first touch of his tongue is barely a whisper, but she's so wildly primed it hits her like an electric shock and she flinches, digs her heels into his back, her hands into his hair. He slides a warm palm over her belly, and while it's soothing, it also feels like a message:

_You're mine now. I'm never letting you go..._

She looks down to see that his palm is leaving black streaks of soot on her white skin, marking her as he'd marked her a week ago... and the image savages her, makes her body writhe and she accepts his terms unconditionally...

It was also a week ago that he first did this to her, but she was frenzied then, barely conscious. And then again, earlier today as a playful part of a mutual exploration. But he's different now, with an intense focus she can feel in every whisper stroke, every flutter of his tongue... so slow and skilled, playing her like a delicately tuned instrument... coaxing her, making her open and come to him...

It's so delicious that she can't last... but he makes her last, brings her to the edge and backs off, then again and again as she whimpers and strains at the acute, frustrated pleasure, grabs at him to force it... but he interlaces his fingers with hers and holds her still, brings her to the edge yet again... and keeps her there, balanced on the bright razor's edge, her hips rising, muscles quivering, breath caught high in her chest. The torment is exquisite, unending... and finally there's nothing she can do but surrender and let him take her where he wants to — so deep that even her frantic need fades, and there's no thought, no future, no past... just here, now, and floating in pure, timeless sensation...

Until, with one final, lingering caress, he lets her come. She doesn't make a sound... her entire being simply coils to a single point under his tongue, erupts into white-hot bliss, then drifts away into nothing...

#

Very gradually, she becomes aware of shivering, of floating like a leaf on a breeze. Language seems like something other people do, but she manages a few words:

"Feel weird... something's wrong..."

"Shhh, you're safe... everything's perfect," he murmurs like soft, dark fur, and her eyes close at the sensuous sounds. "It's natural... just relax... I'll take care of you... God, you're so beautiful like this, Elizabeth..."

She realizes then that she's in his lap, swaddled in a blanket, wrapped in his strong arms... yet she still seems to be floating. His whiskers are so soft on her forehead... she's sure she's never felt anything so soft, or been rocked so sweetly. He's feeding her sips of water from the yellow mug and she's mesmerized by his lips, shining wet with her. His low voice is humming words of love and praise... music that warms her from the inside out. And still she floats, in blissful white, and it seems to take a very long time to descend, to once again feel the pressure of gravity, the weight of her limbs, heavy as lead...

She needs to move. He slowly unwraps the blanket and lowers her to the bed, and himself beside her. She rolls onto her side and curls into a fetal position.

"What is this?" she says, so groggy, so frail...

He snugs up behind her, and she pushes back into his heat, pulls his arm tight around her, requiring contact and the feel of his voice purring in her ear...

"It's a good thing... a flood of hormones. We used to—," he breaks off... and stays quiet. She drifts, loving his liquid-warm breath on the back of her neck.

"It's a kind of subspace," he says into the silence.

"Subspace... subspace," she repeats dreamily. It's familiar, something to do with science fiction. "Subspace frequency...," she murmurs.

He hugs her tighter. "No, it has to do with... submission. You're lucky. You get there really easily," he says, his voice dropping low. "I could only get there through pain."

Her fog is thick, but she reaches toward the statement, knows it's significant...

"Pain?"

His body is tense behind her now. "It was a long time ago," he whispers into her hair.

He reaches over her head and returns with the yellow mug. "You should stay hydrated." She lets him roll her onto her back, lift her heavy head and press the rim to her lips. The water feels impossibly cool as she swallows it down... cool and clarifying...

_Pain..._

_There's always more, Elizabeth... can you live with that..._

He moves the mug away, lowers her head. He's up on his elbow, looking down at her with so much love and so much sorrow that her eyes fill with sympathetic tears.

"This is the  _more_ , isn't it," she says.

He tries and fails to smile.

_**To be continued...** _


	14. Chapter 14

Subspace... submission... pain...

All words that have never before been part of Elizabeth's sexual vocabulary...

She's suspended in the sweetest molasses, so satiated she can barely move. But her euphoria has faded and her mind is busy retracing the not-at-all-clear path that took her and Franco from exorcising demons together, to him deliberately scorching his hand, to his apparent need to dominate her, and finally to a confession that has him looking down at her now with naked apprehension...

_I could only get there through pain..._

She knows she has a choice: she can look at what he's reluctantly offering to show her — another dot to connect, another layer to peel back — or she can stay in this warm, blissful cocoon he's created for her, a state he's admitted to seeking and finding for himself... through  _pain_. She recalls the look of ecstasy on his face as the candle burned his flesh, and with a jolt, she remembers something he'd said earlier... about giving her all the secret, fucked-up sex she could handle...

Suddenly, she feels very, very young.

But she wanted to believe she could deal with anything he might throw at her, and here's her chance to prove it — to both of them. She fills her lungs, braces herself and looks him straight in the eye. If this is what it takes to get to the heart and soul of the man, so be it.

"Tell me, Franco," she says.

His eyes widen like he suddenly realizes he's cornered, like he wants to withdraw the confession, to rewind...

She reaches up and strokes his cheek.

"It's okay. Tell me about the pain."

He stares down at her hard, and she knows now that it means he's deliberating... just like she knows, by the opaqueness of his gaze, the exact moment his attention slips inside himself. Her heart swells with love as she silently identifies each of the myriad emotions at play over his face. She's amazed by how much she's learned in these last few hours... and by how little that really is...

At last he sighs and traces her collarbone with hesitant fingers.

"Once upon a time...," he recites, stops with a bitter laugh, swallows hard and tries again. "Okay... so this  _life_  thing. Life is interesting, right?"

He pauses and she waits, mesmerized by the sparkle of candlelight in his eyes.

Finally he speaks, softly, dully, like all the fight has gone out of him. "You remember I told you about not experiencing emotions like other people... about being numb. On the inside. Well, Mother Nature had a way of compensating for that... by making me  _not_  numb on the outside. The polar opposite of numb, in fact."

He pauses again, and as he tensely watches her face, recollections flare in her mind... of his acute sensitivity, of his helpless response to her touch, to her mouth... and her body warms with echoes of his moans and cries, sounds that sliced her to the core, and do even now...

She trails her fingertips gently down his chest, his stomach, mildly resenting the towel still slung around his hips. "I noticed," she murmurs.

But it's a miscalculation.

"No. You don't understand." He removes her hand, kisses it stiffly before letting it go. "I  _craved_  sensation, Elizabeth. Anything. Everything. All the time. It was the only way I could feel even remotely  _human_." He drops heavily onto his back, not touching her at all now. "And that meant... that there wasn't a whole lot I said  _no_  to, back in the day."

He's silent then. The room rings with his silence, and with all the things he's leaving unsaid, all the encounters he's not describing, all the scenarios he didn't say  _no_  to that are now exploding in her head like the raunchiest pornography... Franco, her beautiful lover, at the hot, throbbing center of a mass of writhing bodies...  _doing_ , being  _done to_...

But for his sake, she struggles to suppress her quickening pulse, the shock of heat between her legs, and instead focus on the shame emanating from him. It's palpable, like a living thing wedging itself between them...

But she has no idea what to say.

"I keep freaking you out," he mutters into the heavy, awkward silence.

"No!" she cries, a shade too vehemently.

"Be honest."

"Honestly... I'm not freaked out, exactly. It's just... new. Surprising. It's a lot to unpack, Franco."

"Yeah, a whole fucking three-ring circus. And me in center ring, King of the Freaks."

A wave of pain makes her roll over to face him, to study his actively scowling profile, his clenched jaw... and to try and tease apart her own tangled responses.

"It hurts me when you talk about yourself like that," she says, voice small, heart aching. "When you condemn yourself for things in your past... things you couldn't control."

After a few beats, he reaches out a hand to her, but draws it back. "I'm sorry... I never want you to hurt, but I'm done lying. I can't pretend I don't feel what I feel. Goddamn  _feeling_ ," he hisses. "I hate all this  _feeling_  crap."

"It does suck sometimes."

"Boy howdy."

A peel of laughter bursts from her, and she marvels that, even at the oddest, most fraught moments, he can somehow manage to make her laugh. She shifts over and nestles her body against his, lays her head on his chest, needing to hear his heartbeat, needing to give and receive comfort, to return to the familiar...

"Franco, why are we even talking about all this?"

He wraps his arm around her with a heavy sigh. "We were unburdening ourselves... metaphorically throwing open the windows and airing the place out. It felt like the right time."

She caresses the taut, warm contours of his stomach, acutely aware that her body is vibrating like a tuning fork at the nearness of him. "And before," she murmurs, remembering white-hot bliss. "What you did to me... it felt like the right time for that, too?"

His skin warms, his breath catches and holds. "I was feeling...," he pauses, seems at a loss. "I needed... "

"Control?"

He lets go a sigh and muscles ripple under her hand like a spasm of revelation. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

It occurs to her how breathtakingly self-aware he can be at times. And at others, how utterly clueless.

"And did it help?"

"Yeah," he says tightly. "It did. It gave me the courage to go there."

"There?"

She feels his hand curling into a fist on her shoulder. "Yeah, there. Here. Where we are. So go ahead... ask. I'm an open book."

"Oh? Since when?"

"Well, not  _open_  open, as in lying around on a coffee table  _open_ ," he says in a wonderfully familiar rush of nonsense. "More like a book on Amazon, where it says 'Look Inside', so you click and you get the table of contents and the title page and the index — who the hell needs the index? — and some other random pages, which is fine if—"

"—You're babbling."

"Am I?"

"Are you nervous about what I'll ask you? Or are you saying that if I want the good stuff, I have to buy the book?"

He laughs, relaxes, and her scalp tingles as he begins to play with the ends of her hair. "No... it's yours. All yours. God knows you earned it. The good stuff, the bad stuff, whatever you can take. Ask away." And though his heartbeat is steady, he sounds vaguely hysterical as he adds, "Just be sure, though — okay? Be sure you're ready."

Her own heart is pounding, her mind a tangle of questions... most of them wildly unhelpful.

_Subspace... submission... pain... anything... everything... all the time...?_

And her mind is spooling out images again... unwelcome, lurid, triple X porn...

Is she ready for answers, for more pieces of the puzzle of him? She won't know until she  _knows_... and that's the problem. Burning the portrait and banishing demons gave her a certain sense of confidence, of closure... but ultimately, it was just a silly game. She's still surrounded by the remnants of her molasses cocoon, can still feel Franco's tongue keeping her on the razor's edge of orgasm... she could go back there and never have to know the things he once did... and with whom. Never have to know who kept  _him_  on the razor's edge, who decided when he could fall... who held him close and pressed a cup of cool water to his lips...

Never have to know if that's something he still needs...

Her ancient insecurities are rising, surrounding her and screaming like Banshees now: How the hell is she supposed to  _compete_  with all this when she can practically count her lovers on one hand, when they all dumped her, each and every one, because she's clearly not enough, will never be enough—

"—Don't you dare," Franco says gravely.

"Don't... what?"

"Believe what you're thinking."

She blinks at his insight, realizes she's stiff as a board, must be radiating anxiety. She wishes she could just light a piece of paper and banish this for real, but it's so ingrained, so damn stubborn...

She sags against him with a small, defeated sound. "Franco, I just—"

"—Listen, Elizabeth," he says firmly, pulling her close. "The beauty of having done all that shit is that I never have to do it again."

 _All WHAT shit_ , she burns to ask, but he doesn't give her a chance. In a rough flurry of motion he rolls to his side and turns her hard in his arms so she's forced to face him.

"You  _satisfy_  me, Elizabeth." His tone is rough and urgent, as though some evil force will overhear and take it all away. "I've  _never_  been satisfied before, by anyone or anything. Just being near you satisfies me. When I'm not touching you, I literally feel like I'm starving. Can you understand what that means?"

His intensity and conviction, his eyes burning into hers, leave her no choice but to accept, if not quite believe. She's flushed from head to toe, replays his words in her mind, and then again, trying to make them fill her, to make them destroy the protest that's forming on her lips, that's threatening to escape into the world...

_But someday you'll need more... someday you'll leave like everyone else..._

He's searching her face intently, hand cupping the back of her neck.

"You believe me?" he says.

She nods weakly, unpersuasively.

"Doesn't matter." He pulls her to him again and wraps fierce arms around her body. "If you'll let me, I plan to spend the rest of my life proving it to you."

She settles there, breathing him in, letting him fill her, strengthen her... and convince her that she can handle anything.

**_To be continued..._ **


	15. Chapter 15

Franco loves her. She satisfies him. She believes he means it, and yet there are so many questions...

 _I could only get there through pain..._   _There wasn't a lot I said_ no _to, back in the day..._

His words are reverberating in her mind, growing in heat and intensity, as are the orgies in her head... and the anxiety twists her bones until she can't keep from blurting out...

"So, is that how you learned to do the things you do?"

She instantly regrets it. It's a child's question — an insecure child. She sucks in air and shakes her head. "Forget it. Don't—"

"—No. I said you could ask me anything. Open book." His voice wavers, like he's having regrets of his own.

"Are you sure?"

"Are you?"

She takes a moment to breathe, to center herself, lighten up, call forth the adult. "Well...," she says. "I have to admit that my imagination is going a little crazy. You do have certain... skills."

When she ventures a glance up at his face, her half-hearted smile fades. He's glowering at the ceiling, radiating tension.

"Skills," he mutters.

"Wrong word?"

He drops his arm from around her, shrugs away a bit, clears his throat. "Let's just say... that once upon a time, other people's bodies were a hell of a lot easier to read than their emotions."

She warms with the visceral memory of how effortlessly, how masterfully he's been able to read  _her_  body...

"And... that's a bad thing...?"

She's trying to be light, teasing... but when he stiffens and draws a shaky breath, she's afraid she's made another miscalculation. He starts to reply several times, forming and discarding words like it's imperative he find the right ones...

"It  _can_  be a bad thing, Elizabeth," he says finally. "In the wrong hands." He turns his head to her slowly, as though the movement hurts him, and his face is so haunted her blood goes cold.

"In  _my_  hands. Can you... do you understand what I'm saying?"

He locks into her eyes like he's trying to shatter her innocence as painlessly as possible, to spark comprehension... but there is none. She wants to give him something, respond appropriately, but can only shake her head...

"Okay." He swallows hard and continues. "Imagine someone with no empathy. No impulse control. No moral compass. Then put him in a place, a situation where people want... where there are tools. Outfit him with equipment meant to—," he breaks off with a choked sound, rolls heavily away from her and curls in on himself.

"There are other worlds, Elizabeth...," he says. "You don't know. And I pray you never do."

She stares at his broad back, his words and implications hovering, but not landing. She's frustrated with herself, knows he needs something from her, and that she's failing. She reaches out to touch, to soothe him as she has so many times, sees her hand move toward him... but it freezes in mid-air... and like a knife to the gut, she understands.

Horrific images explode like shards of glass in her mind — not of consensual erotic encounters, but of violence and sadism, blood and screams, Franco's face twisted and warped like in his self-portrait... and he's once again the man he was — a vicious monster, torturing people she cares for...

 _Jesus_ , she gasps, recoils from him, feels herself detach... and she seems to be floating again, disembodied, yet flooded by cold, sharp panic...

_Aiden Jake Cam..._

Frantically, she searches her mind's eye for each of her little boys, and only when she locates them, sees them safe and sound in their brightly lit worlds, can she let loose the harsh breath she's been holding, can feel her body, solid in the room again...

And shame sweeps her as she realizes that Franco is facing her, that his eyes are on her. He must have watched it all unfold — her dawning awareness, her horror and panic, the bottomless loathing she'd thought was gone forever...

But maybe he's known better all along.

"Right," he says softly. "There it is."

Reflexively, she opens her mouth to protest, to reassure, undo the damage... but it's all too new, too raw. Ugly truths are alive in her mind... and she knows from the anguish in his face that it's much too late, anyway...

"You did that on purpose," she gasps.

"No, Elizabeth." His voice catches on a small sob. "I didn't. Not this time. I honestly hoped... I thought..."

"That I could handle it," she whispers in a voice barely there.

He nods slowly, but there's no reproach. Instead, he searches her face with almost unbearable tenderness. "No one could have handled it. I'm sorry. We just seemed so—"

"—Shut up! Just shut up," she cries, so gutted, so unable to stand what he might say. She grabs his arm and pitches onto her side, dragging him along behind her until he's tight against her the way he was before, when she was safe and ignorant in her sweet molasses cocoon, before her world crumbled into dust...

She'd had a choice: Bliss or truth... and she made the wrong one. Catastrophically wrong.

"Don't you move," she tells him, trying not to shake apart. "Don't talk. Don't do  _any_ thing."

#

They lay together, entwined, yet as far apart as they've ever been. Grief and repulsive images are crushing her, making it hard to breathe. Hot tears slip from her eyes as she struggles to fit these jagged new puzzle pieces into a coherent whole, and what's emerging isn't one picture, but many... and they're as irreconcilable as logic and instinct, love and hate, hope and despair...

His breathing is erratic behind her... irregular clouds of heat that gently ruffle her hair as her imagination weaves its hellish tapestry of his past. And she allows it to take shape, too tired to fight anymore, too tired to deny or keep either of their hearts from breaking...

She wants to know what he did to the people in those other worlds of his... what his hands are capable of. Maybe the reality isn't as bad as she's imagining... but maybe it's far worse...

And it occurs to her that now she has an intimate understanding of what he lives with... every day, every hour — the brief, blissful moments of forgetting, followed by the inevitable devastation of remembering. What she doesn't understand is how he goes on...

A candle sputters out, deepening the shadows in this sanctuary where once all things had seemed possible — forgiveness, redemption, transcendence...

"I love you. I  _do_ ," she says... but not out loud. Not yet. Instead, she fills her lungs with the scent of the place — a cocktail of turpentine, Dammar varnish, oil paint... and the barest hint of rose. She follows the faint perfume, sees the flush of crimson, crushed under a fold of blanket... and there they are again, the two of them as they were only a short time ago — loving, learning, joyful — and as they could have been again. Could still be...

She pulls his arm more tightly around herself. It's a long, strong arm, well-formed; it has embraced her, supported her, restrained her... its skin is as warm against hers as it's always been...

"You're not that man anymore," she says aloud, to both of them. "I know you're not. I feel it, with everything I am."

His breath catches, but he doesn't respond. He's ghostlike behind her... so she lifts his hand and holds it close to her face, sees the burn he gave himself — the red skin beneath the faded streak of soot. She presses his palm hard into her cheek to imprint herself with the gray mark, to be  _his_  again, without question or doubt...

"Stop," he hisses, pulling sharply, but she doesn't let him go.

"These hands are  _not_  wrong." Her voice is trembling with a cold she feels in her soul. "I  _love_  these hands."

"Don't, Elizabeth," he whispers. "Please..."

"It took me by surprise, that's all. I just need time. Constant exposure..."

"No. Not to this." He gathers her shaking body close, but not too close. "Hush... rest now. It'll be all right."

"Will it?"

"Shhhh... just rest."

#

She may have slept, or drifted in a sort of limbo, but she's awake now. Another candle has gone out, and she feels like she's swimming in dark water on a moonless night, with no idea how deep it is or how far she is from shore... and no idea what lies beneath. She's exhausted, but needs to keep moving forward, always forward... or she'll drown in blackness...

She can feel his presence behind her, his heat, his misery... but he's no longer touching her.

"Tell me about feeling human," she whispers into the dim glow. Her voice sounds foreign to her ears, like she's already drowned. "Tell me about the pain. Tell me about the people you let hurt you... and the people you hurt. How many were there?"

She rolls toward him, but he moves away soundlessly, sits up and wraps his arms around his upraised knees. He rocks himself, long hair swaying around his face, and when he stills, his features are hidden from her.

"I'll tell you what I can," he says. "About the first things."

She lays on her back, heart pounding, and watches the light from the remaining candle dance over the ceiling.

"I didn't really... I didn't know what to call it back then," he says, low, halting, as though he's struggling to describe something he finds unfathomable. "But I know what it was now — it was  _letting go_. It was  _trust_. Trusting that... that I could be hurt,  _would_  be hurt... but on my own terms. That I wouldn't be tricked or manipulated or lied to, that black was black and white was white... and if I said stop, it would stop, and if I didn't say stop... well, then black and white became color, and it was beautiful... the most beautiful... peace. I knew peace."

He turns his head toward her fractionally.

"I don't expect you to understand. But you asked."

She knows he can't see her tears, so she doesn't try to hide them. Though his answer gives rise to a hundred more questions, she's moved almost beyond words and longs to touch him, but he seems wholly apart from her, locked away in a sort of invisible, self-imposed exile.

"Thank you for telling me," she says. "I think I understand, a little, and it is beautiful... to trust in that way, to surrender. You showed me that..."

He nods, still protected by his shield of hair. "The rest is... I'll never tell you the rest. Not now."

She understands... of course she does. She made it impossible. But it still hurts. "No more open book...?"

"No."

"All right. I'll never ask." And she won't — she knows all she needs to know. She sits up gingerly, the way one would so as not to startle a wounded animal... but he moves abruptly out of her reach and goes to crouch over something nearby. She realizes it's the stone bowl. He brushes his hands over the blanket, gathering up what's left of his portrait, wads the pieces into a tight ball and holds it over the candle until it ignites, bathing his hand and face in red.

Her heart swells with pain, and with love — and she doubts that the two will ever be separable again. Still, she goes to him. He jerks at the first touch of her hand on his arm like he'd forgotten she was there, but lets her sit by his side and watch as he silently drops the flaming ball into the bowl.

"None left for me?" she says. His nearness and the feel of his skin are as healing to her as a salve, and she caresses his back, turns to brush her lips over his shoulder.

"You don't need it," he says softly. "You're done. You're free."

She's not sure what he means, but a knot forms in her chest.

"What demon are you banishing?"

"Biggest, baddest one of all."

He gently pushes away from her, circles to the other side of the glowing bowl and settles cross-legged, opposite her. This time, she doesn't follow.

"Oh?" The knot moves to her throat and makes it hard to speak. "Which one is that?"

He rests his elbows on his knees, his chin on closed fists and stares hard into the flame as though praying to an unseen god for strength.

"Love," he says.

_**To be continued...** _


	16. Chapter 16

Love.

It's such a small word, once so foreign to Franco, but now he's wielding it expertly, like a knife aimed straight at her heart.

"Is that what you want…," Elizabeth says, barely breathing. "To not feel love? To not love me?" She'd suspected it could come to this... a time when he finally felt too much, when the pain outweighed the joy, and he'd try to shut it all down...

Franco stares into the bowl and says nothing.

She presses on. "You said that I'm done, I'm free... you think I don't love you anymore? Is that what you think?"

He gives her nothing but a slight flaring of his nostrils, a clenching of his jaw.

"You couldn't be more wrong…"

She waits anxiously for a reaction, but he just leans down and blows lightly on the burning ball of paper, making the flames dance. A wave of nausea washes over her — she's getting to know his degrees of hurt, has seen everything from pouts to bitter retorts to desperate howls… and this quietness never bodes well.

"Franco, please, talk to me."

She reaches toward him, but he deflects her with an upraised hand… then calmly tucks his fist back under his chin. He's so unreachable she barely recognizes him.

"What's happening?" she says, with a rising note of frustration. "Is this because of how I reacted before? I thought we were past that."

"I saw your face," he says simply, lifelessly.

The horror she felt slaps her again… the hellish images of S&M dungeons and tearing flesh… the violence he might once have been capable of… and she remembers the anguish in his eyes as he watched her…

"I told you," she says, more weakly than she'd like. "It was a reflex. It caught me off guard, what you were implying… I mean, you didn't even spell it out… you just left me to imagine the worst…"

He's staring into the bowl again, face licked by the glow of flames, and she hates that she's reminded of a demon…

She ignores the image and continues, casting around for an analogy he could connect with. "It's like… imagine you've never seen the color red. You've heard about it, read about it, but you've never seen it first hand. And suddenly you turn a corner and there's a huge wall of RED. You're going to have a reaction—"

"—Interesting that you chose red," he murmurs. "Red rage. Seeing red. Blood red—"

"—My  _point_ ," she says, grimacing at the transparency of her own mind. "Is that I had a reaction, but I've moved through it. And now red is just another color on the palette that makes you  _you_  — my multicolored Franco. My colorful Franco."

She smiles at him tenderly, but it's wasted — he doesn't look up. Instead, his eyes are wide, transfixed by the ball of flame.

"Right. No," he says absently. "It's not your fault. None of it."

"Then why do I feel like I'm being punished?"

He looks up sharply at that, shudders as though touched by an icy hand. " _Jesus_. Punishing you anymore is the last thing I want." He pushes to his feet, stands uncertainly, head swiveling like he's searching for something…

"That's it. Right," he says. "I have to leave."

She's hit by a shock of panic. _"Leave?"_

"Pack up. Go someplace where I didn't hurt anyone… where my presence isn't a constant reminder of all the pain I caused." He looks down at himself, at the towel still wrapped securely around his hips, runs his hands over it as though wiping them clean…

"But... but Franco… that's…," she stammers, thrown by his abrupt shift, mouth suddenly very dry. "You've built a  _life_  here… a good life, with—,"

"—And most of all," he interrupts, eyes hard on her from high above. "I need to stop looking to my victims to save me. _"_

She has to look away at that. She'd thought the same thing herself, not so long ago, questioned his interest in her, his motives for staying in this place where he's so hated… but mostly, she notices that she's bristling…

"I am not your victim, Franco."

He tilts his head down to her, lips curling almost cruelly…

"Aiden," he says simply.

The name hangs in the air like an accusation… and she blanches, feels the barely-healed scar of his kidnapping tearing open inside her, the terror of those days raging fresh again… and it takes several moments for her to gather herself, to find and utter the words…

"That's in the past. It wasn't you. I've forgiven you."

"I know you want to believe that, Elizabeth. I did, too… you'll never know. But it's not… realistic." He shrugs and continues with almost alarming indifference. " _We're not realistic_. You said that to me once, in the garage… remember? I argued with you, but you were right."

She's stung by his casual resolve, by the sense that he's made up his mind and is  _done,_  regardless of what she wants. But she's not done. Not by a long shot.

"I was  _wrong_ , Franco, like you're wrong now. So much has happened since then, so much has changed! We've—"

"—I saw your face," he repeats, but now so softly she can barely hear him... and she sees that the facade has crumbled. He's the old Franco again,  _her_  Franco — eyes pained, resolve gone. He lifts his hand, traces the shape of her cheek in mid-air as though he's feeling her. "Your face," he says with wonder… but his gaze darkens, slides away, loses focus. "Yeah… I think I have to go, before…" he trails off into silence.

He's veering wildly between heartbreaking vulnerability and a cold detachment that's so uncharacteristic, it can only be driven by profound pain. It strikes Elizabeth how utterly lost he seems... even here, standing in the middle of his studio, among things that define him. A strong need comes over her to be careful with him, to tiptoe. She's oddly reminded of the squeaky hinge on Aiden's bedroom door, how slowly she opens it at night when she checks on him… which she does, more often than on the others — her youngest… her baby…

The scar is so deep…

And she has to acknowledge a painful truth — there are deep twinges of doubt she hasn't quite been able to overcome, that may be affecting her in ways she's unaware of… but she knows they  _will be_  overcome with time, with constant exposure to this gentle, tortured man who has become necessary to her life. She summons all the love she feels for him... which is so close and abundant it takes no effort at all…

"I'm so sorry I hurt you, Franco," she says, laying herself open to him.

His head drops forward, hair hiding his face from her. "Stop," he gasps. "It's not your fault."

"I love you. I accept everything you've told me about yourself—,"

"—Until the next time. And the time after that."

"Please…," she says, suddenly aware of how very naked she is. "Don't use this to push me away—,"

_"—I SAW YOUR FACE!"_  he wails — a soul-deep, heartbroken sound that rips through the room, obliterates her protests, stuns her into silence. They each hang suspended for a moment, shocked eyes fastened on one another… until he sinks to his knees, drained.

"But it wasn't true, what you saw," she says, so weakly even she doesn't believe it.

"It is true, Elizabeth. The deepest truth. More true than any of your explanations." His voice is flat now, eyes empty. "Fear of me — it's part of your wiring. Distrust… revulsion — I branded them into your psyche years ago. And there's no undoing it."

She shakes her head, needing him to be wrong… equally afraid he's not.

"But… but why do you insist on  _reinforcing_  it…," she says helplessly.

He turns his arms, palms out, plaintive. "Because… I want you to  _see_  me. How do I do that? I honestly don't know — show you a little at a time or all at once…? Or do I ignore my past and pretend that all the things that shaped me never happened?" He reaches out his hands to her, stretching, yearning, like a man desperate for salvation...

"I see  _you_ , you know?  _You_. So clearly… so…," he trails off, dropping his hands again, fisting them at his sides before she has a chance to take them, to kiss them, press them to her cheeks… because she would have, if he'd let them come anywhere near her. And just as she's about to go to him, find a way to blast through his defenses and make him understand that she  _does_  see him, that she loves what she sees… a fire seems to ignite inside him and he surges toward her, voice low and urgent, eyes blazing…

"You are _beautiful_ , Elizabeth," he says. " _So beautiful_. People toss that word around, but I mean genuine, profound beauty — the kind that penetrates you, makes you feel like you belong, makes you so fucking grateful you're alive and you get to share the world with miracles. You're  _pure_   _light_ … you're  _grace_. That's the way you effect me. You smile and you burn through me and I feel like there's no place for darkness to hide… and when I saw your face, looking at me that way… your exquisite face, so full of  _hate_ …, _"_

And instantly the fire dies… he goes pale, body sags, and he's as broken as she's ever seen him.

"I have to go," he moans. "I have to. Before I see that again…"

She's stunned, tears streaming down her face. She leans up, tries again to touch him, but he flinches away… and she drops back, devastated.

"Franco… God, you're so wrong. But how can I convince you? I've told you over and over again how I feel about you, how happy you make me—"

"—No, I don't make you happy. I can't. How many times have you cried today, Elizabeth? That's not happiness — it's  _this_ …"

He jams his finger into the stone bowl between them, into the smoldering but still round, still intact ball of paper — the last vestige of how she sees him, of how he sees himself — and when he touches it, it disintegrates into ash.

As, it seems to Elizabeth, does everything.

#

She's blasted and threadbare… but she's far more substantial than Franco seems, hunched in on himself, barely breathing. He's withdrawing, dissolving… the self-hatred eating him away like acid before her eyes. And even that may not be fast enough for his liking. She's sure that if she leaves now, she'll never see him again... and that is unbearable.

_You've been so alone. You don't have to be alone anymore,_  she whispers to him silently and imagines running her fingers through his hair... but she doesn't act on it — she's far too raw for another rejection, so she hugs herself... for comfort, for protection. In her mind's eye, the day seems to run like watercolors in the rain… clear strokes of sunshine yellow mixing with calm blues and angry crimson reds… all finally bleeding into pools of darkest gray…

_Red rage… seeing red… blood red…_

So many questions have been piling up, questions she'd set aside, but now they clamor for attention… and since he's making no move to leave — and she won't leave unless he makes it impossible for her to stay — she may as well start asking them...

"About the pain…," she begins, voice far more frail than it sounded in her head. She needs to be stronger than this… she  _is_  stronger than this…

_You smile and you burn through me and I feel like there's no place for the darkness to hide…_

She knows that's true, has seen the evidence of her power over him... and with great power, she reminds herself, comes great responsibility...

"You said something earlier, Franco." She's gentle, coaxing, trying to penetrate his pain, win back trust... and maybe get a straight answer for a change. "It was about being hurt on your own terms, about not being tricked or lied to... that when you said stop, it would stop." She takes a breath before continuing. "Was there someone in your life who wouldn't stop? Did someone hurt you?"

He stiffens, doesn't reply for a few beats, and then gruffly. "No more open book. You said you wouldn't ask me anything."

"But you want me to  _see_  you," she says, letting everything she's feeling color her voice — her fear of losing him, anguish at his pain… her bruised, fierce love. "And that's what I want, too. More than anything."

She hears his breath catch as he shudders, nods, but he seems to disappear just a little a bit more…

"I tried to be so careful," he says in a broken whisper. "Especially with you, because of what you told me... about your past…"

She knows instinctively what he's referring to. "My rape."

He flinches like the words backhanded him.

"Yeah. Yes. I wanted to treat you so gently… so—," he breaks off, fingers twitching like they long to touch her, but he wraps his arms around his torso instead. He takes a deep breath, then deeper… and when he continues to speak, her eyes fill with tears of relief... because it seems that, ultimately, the chance to be  _seen_  by her outweighs his need to disappear…

"You have to understand," he says. "In some ways I feel like I've been...  _conditioned..._ to respond to certain things. Even though it wasn't  _me_  back then — the person I recognize myself to be now — it was still my body. And if I'm honest—," he looks up quickly. "And if we stay in this, I want to be honest. No more lies, no more hiding... even if it means—," he breaks off, eyes filing with tears, and looks away again just as quickly, swallows hard before continuing...

"So if I'm honest, there was a spark of me in the guy who did those things, just like there's a spark of him in me. And he flares up. I can't predict when, but it happens, all the time."

She's confused, isn't sure if he's trying to answer her question in an indirect way, if he's deflecting, or if it's something else altogether… but at least he's talking. He's hurting her heart… but he's talking.

"It's all relatively new, though, right Franco?" she says softly, longing to touch what's still so untouchable. "And you said yourself that the old patterns are really hard to break. They took years to create, and they won't vanish overnight, but you're strong… you'll break them and you'll learn to control those impulses. You  _will_."

He hesitates, jaw working, eyes hard on the stone bowl between them. "But what if I can't. No, worse — what if I don't always want to?"

A cool wariness stiffens her spine.

_There's always more… can you live with that…_

She doesn't want a repeat of earlier, so she prepares herself, is careful to compose her face into an unreadable mask before speaking...

"And is that… true?"

He finally raises his head. "Maybe it is. I don't know." There's a new openness, a frankness in his expression... a willingness to risk. "I just know that what I did… what I  _experienced_  — it wasn't all terrible, Elizabeth."

She lets this revelation wash over her, tunes into her cascade of conflicting responses — apprehension, disgust… curiosity, intrigue. She starts to calibrate her reaction to something reassuringly neutral… but rejects the impulse. If he can be honest, so can she.

"All right. That's a little disturbing," she admits. "But conditioning is a powerful thing. Do you want to talk about it?" She pauses, not sure she should ask what she's about to ask... not sure what she wants his answer to be...

"Are there experiences you might want to… revisit?"

He shakes his head sharply. "God no. Not with you."

She didn't want  _that_ answer. It's a long, deep stab of everything she's been so afraid of…

_You'll need more… you'll leave like the others… I'm not enough, never enough…_

But she roughly sets it aside, because he's telling her why…

"That  _peace_  I used to know… it was a pale imitation of what I've felt with you, Elizabeth. I never want to go back there. I don't want that old shit anywhere near you. And I tried… I did, but—"

He stops dead, eyes guilty and intense on hers… like he's asking her, just one last time, to imagine the worst…

She stiffens instinctively. "And did it? Get near me?"

A strange expression crosses his face and he looks away.

She scrambles back over their hours together for anything that felt wrong, frightening, anything he might consider  _that old shit_ … but comes up empty. And then she remembers  _restraint_  — all the times she sensed it in him, all the sudden shifts from aggression to reverence… like when he first touched her between her legs… first moved inside her… the dark promise of his words,

_Don't stop drawing, no matter what I do…_

And his u-turn into sweetness as he took off her stupid sneakers. He did get the control, the dominance he'd needed, but in the most generous way possible…

But what if he hadn't been feeling generous… where had he been headed, where would he have gone if he'd let himself?

A movement distracts her; she watches as he slips his hand into the stone bowl, takes a bit of ash and slowly rubs it between his thumb and middle finger.

"The thing about darkness, Elizabeth," he says quietly. "Is that it's always attracted to light. Powerfully. It needs it."

She considers this, the truth of it… and the reverse. For the first time since coming here today, she wonders what it would be like to let him go... to put an end to this chaos, let him walk out of her life and take his confusion and self-loathing with him... to risk never again feeling so alive, so precious and necessary... to forget about those other worlds of his, and whether there might be a place for her in any of them…

"Light needs darkness, too," she says, to both of them. "One can't exist without the other."

There's a resolve in her voice that surprises and impresses her. It must impress him, too — he looks directly at her, and he finally seems to shed enough of his grief and misery to actually  _hear_  what she's been trying to tell him…

"So… despite everything," he says carefully, like he's working his way through a complex puzzle. "You have no intention of ridding yourself of me."

She shakes her head, looks at him like he's an idiot. "Well, no... not today."

He huffs an uncertain laugh… but when his eyes lock into hers, the connection between them flares wildly, like live embers in a sudden breeze, warming her inside and out.

"So where does that leave us?" she says, heart pounding.

He heaves an incredulous sigh... and looks at her with a trace of sadness she can't quite understand.

"The place in between, I guess," he says. "In the shadows."

**_To be continued…_ **


	17. Chapter 17

The air around them has grown heavy, potent, but neither Franco nor Elizabeth moves. She watches his kaleidoscope of expressions in the dying candlelight, trying to fathom his state of mind, reviewing where they've come from, wondering how to move forward without risking two more steps back…

And opposite her, only a few feet away yet still unreachable, Franco seems to be doing the same.

"I know that's not a comfortable place for you… the shadows," Elizabeth says, to break the impasse. "It's not somewhere you want to be."

"No. Not anymore. I know what can happen in them." He tilts his head toward her, implying more than he's saying. "There was a time you didn't like them, either, Elizabeth."

As if on cue, the remaining candle sputters out, leaving them bathed in a purple twilight haze. She takes her time before replying to him, lets her eyes absorb the change in their surroundings. What was mundane a moment ago has taken on an edge of mystery in the new, dim light… the easel looms above her like a threat… or a sentry. The graffiti tags on the walls seem to float in the air like angry, restless ghosts. The corners of the room are murky with shadows, and he's right — anything could be hiding in them, anything could happen. He's also right that the woman who came here this morning didn't like shadows, or ambiguity, or risk… but she doesn't feel like that woman anymore…

"You know, shadows aren't the only result of light and dark interacting," she says. "I know a few  _artsy_  terms, if you're interested…"

His skin has taken on an otherworldly indigo hue, his teeth glint white as he gives her an indulgent smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Educate me."

"Well… there's  _chiaroscuro_ , the shading technique that makes forms look three-dimensional," she says, remembering the way his face emerged in charcoal on the white page beneath her fingers. "You need both light and dark for that. Think of a Cara—,"

"—vaggio." He nods, as though hurrying her along. "The master, of course."

"And there's  _sfumato_ , that technique da Vinci developed to soften the transition from dark to light. Maybe we're in our  _sfumato_  phase," she says, with a note of playfulness she hasn't felt in awhile. "I'd like that."

But he's not sharing her mood; his sigh is so forlorn that her smile fades.

" _Sfumato_  means  _vanished gradually like smoke."_ He leans toward her, repeating gravely, _"Vanished gradually like smoke._  I don't want that to happen to you, Elizabeth."

She mirrors his lean with a small, gently mocking smile and says, just as gravely. "I'm not going anywhere."

"But you are changing," he says, face falling like he's watching a tragedy unfold and is powerless to stop it.

She sits back again, feels the pins and needles from her legs having fallen asleep as she'd knelt there… and she realizes, with a burst of joy, they're the only part of her that  _is_  asleep.

"But I'm not  _vanishing_ , Franco," she says, needing him to understand. "If anything, I feel… solid, energized.  _Free_. Not nearly as afraid of being hurt… or afraid of myself... so yes, I am changing — thanks to you."

His brow furrows as he shakes that off. "Then there's  _tenebrism_ ," he says forcefully. "Where the darks are flat and empty and only exist to emphasize what's in the light. The  _light_  is all that matters."

"But the light isn't all there is."

"But the light is all that  _matters_ , Elizabeth, believe me! It took me a long time to get here, and I don't want to go back!"

"Well, I don't want to go back, either!" she all but shouts.

Their impasse has returned with a vengeance — they face off with narrowed eyes and clenched jaws, each daring the other to back down first. And it's Franco who does.

"I don't think I could live with myself…," he pulls a halting breath, lets it out slowly as though needing time. "If I did anything to corrupt you."

" _Corrupt_  me?" She almost laughs until she sees that he's deadly serious. "Franco, I'm a grown woman! I'm a human being, not some angel of light. I'm certainly not  _pure_ …"

"You are to me."

She drops her eyes and self-consciously brushes the blanket in front of her. "Please... you have to stop idealizing me, or you're in for a huge disappointment. I am  _so_  flawed, so far from perfect…"

"You're perfect for me." His eyes on her are intense, adoring… and terrified. "I told you… I  _see_  you. I see the so-called flaws… but I also see how we fit. It's a perfect fit, Elizabeth, and I don't want that to change."

"Do you want me to go back to being afraid and rigid and closed off?" she says, hurt making her voice soft.

"Of  _course_  not. I want you to be as fully and truly yourself as you can possibly be. But I also want you to be healthy and  _safe_." He pauses for a steadying breath. "Look, I can see that you're not as closed off... but what you're opening yourself up to can be very dangerous."

She takes a few beats to deal with all the thoughts crowding her head — he's right,  _again._ The ideas and behaviors she's...  _encountered_  here... she would have rejected them yesterday. And as for these physical, mental and emotional states she'd known nothing about before… they're as alluring and intriguing to her now as beautiful books in a foreign language. Somehow they've become  _options_ … and what if exploring them is part of being fully and truly herself? What if—

But she's brought up short by a sudden insight...

"Very dangerous for me, Franco…," she says. "Or for  _you_?"

His eyes fly wide, then dart away. It's clear to her from his stunned, worried look, from the storm clouds rolling over his face, that this motivation hadn't occurred to him. She has no doubt his warning was sincere, based on years of experience, borne of love and good intentions… but it's also much more than that…

_It took me a long time to get here, and I don't want to go back..._

He's sitting crossed-legged, forearms resting on his knees, long fingers moving slowly, as though to a complex rhythm in his mind… and she remembers the feel of those fingers on her skin. His eyes are deep and active as he works through the implications of what she suggested, face is stern... and the way his hair spills over his tattooed shoulders puts her in mind of a warrior. He has the air of a man who's fought too many battles and is trapped in the memory of each and every one…

Finally he lets out a blast of air and looks up at her, eyes warm with admiration.

"You're smart," he says, gentle as a caress. "But everything I said is true, Elizabeth. I know the danger… how easy it is to let desire and arousal take you to dark places. Places you can't handle. It can all be very, very seductive."

He watches her then… maybe for a sign of understanding, or that she's backing away from the precipice. She knows it's what he wants, but she knows herself, too. She knows the gravity of her responsibilities in the world, and that for her, there will always be limits. And she also knows that, whatever happens, he'll honor them.

"You can be very, very seductive too," she says softly.

He sighs heavily and drops his head, shoulders slumping in obvious defeat. She simply waits, no longer willing to set herself aside to reassure or appease, no intention at all of giving him what he wants.

And gradually his breathing changes, deepens. He looks up at her from under his brow...

"Then why are you all the way over there," he says, voice like black velvet.

She returns his gaze, matches his tone. "Are you going to run away again?"

Something flashes across his face, but he slowly shakes his head.

Nervous energy surges through her, makes her pulse quicken. She hesitates, imagines launching herself over the stone bowl and into his lap, and bites back a smile at the image. Or she could sidle around to him on her bottom, or crawl over on all fours…

Instead, she stands up, shakes out her stiff legs and stretches the full length of her body, arms reaching overhead, releasing mountains of tension, spreading a tingling warmth that revives all the sensations of the day… inside and out. She lowers her arms and almost laughs as she moves toward him, feeling so free and proud… shoulders back, hips swaying. She watches his eyes watch her — he's not shy about where he looks, his heated gaze roving over her hips, her belly, her thighs. She settles down next to him, tucks her legs beneath her and leans toward him, long hair falling over her shoulder. She tosses her head just to feel its softness brush her skin.

It seems like hours since they've been this close. He smells like sex — like her and him and them — but she doesn't touch him. Energy hums between them, a force field that siphons a bit of air from her lungs, and she can tell from the slight flush on his skin, the hitch in his breath, that he feels it, too.

But neither one moves.

"Hi," he says softly, eyes moving up from her breasts to settle on her face.

"Hi."

He shakes his head. "You're so beautiful, Elizabeth."

"So are you."

And still they don't move, don't touch. Each seems to be waiting for permission from an unseen force... or for the other to signal, unequivocally, that it's okay now, the pain is over...

He drops his eyes to the blanket, shifts his weight toward, then away, then toward her again. She knows he wants to speak, can tell from his body language that it's another confession, so she waits... part-dreading, but mostly honored that he continues to try with her...

"I'm so sorry to put you through all this. I... have never been…  _whole_  with anyone. I never wanted to be, before," he says. They both watch his forefinger make the tentative journey from his knee to her bare shoulder... a whisper-touch of contact. "I'm doing it really badly because it scares me. And now, I just feel like… if I so much as breathe wrong, it'll all fall apart."

She sighs away everything that's been holding her back from him, reaches up and caresses his cheek. He collapses heavily into the touch, eyes squeezing shut…

"It won't fall apart," she says. "But you have to trust me."

He says nothing, just rests against her palm, breathing her in as though she provides all the nourishment he needs... or will ever need. Yet he slowly sits back, letting her hand fall away.

"Then… I need you to admit that what I saw in your face before — that horror and hatred — that was  _real_. I can't have you lying to me, or pretending. Not you, Elizabeth."

She would rather chew glass than go there again, feels a thousand protests rising, but it's a profound thing he's asking for — mutual honesty, mutual trust — and her answer has the potential to destroy, or salvage, everything.

So she pulls a deep, balancing breath… and prepares for fallout. "Yes, Franco," she says. "It was real. But—,"

"Right." He flinches and holds up a silencing hand. "Thank you."

"But it's not the  _truth_." She dips her head toward him, desperate to catch his eye, but he's already elsewhere. "You  _know_  the truth. But that damn reflexive reaction… it's like—,"

"—PTSD," he says miserably.

"Well, no, what I—"

"—Or a bloody stain you can't get out."

"That's not—," she tries again.

"—Or big red walls." He casts a sidelong glance at her. His tone is just a shade lighter... enough that she risks lifting his tight fist from his lap and holding it gently in her hands.

"What I  _actually_  have in mind," she says, when he doesn't pull away. "Is the human appendix. It's useless, but it's there, and sometimes it causes a hell of a lot of trouble."

He scowls at the blanket for a few moments, breathes for a few more, then nods sharply, turns and gives her a tight half-smile. "Thanks for being honest, Nurse Webber," he says, and when he opens his fist and squeezes her hand, she wants to dive into his lap and hug him, but she restrains herself. Instead, she takes his face between her palms and locks into his eyes, heart swelling.

"Franco, if, God forbid, I react that way again, you can't use it to torture yourself," she says fiercely. "And you can't use it against me. You don't get to decide on your own how I feel, or what my reactions mean. I decide that. And you don't get to run away without  _talking_  to me."

"Huh," he mutters, part sulky, part defensive. "I seem to remember saying the same thing to you, not so long ago."

"You did, and I heard you. They're smart words."

He takes her hands from his face, presses them to his lips... and lets them go. "Okay, that's it," he says wearily. "This is so not the man I want to be for you, Elizabeth. Enough with this weak and needy shit."

She relaxes, finally feels free enough to touch his hair, to let it flow through her fingers like water. "I don't see you that way at all," she says. "I see you as someone who… woke up in the middle of a mine field and is trying to pick his way out."

He huffs a humorless laugh. "No map. Hell of a lot of mines."

She tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. "And sometimes you step on one."

"And when I do, you get hurt, too."

She turns his face to her and lets all the love she feels for him shine in her eyes. "It's okay. You supported me through so much, Franco… now I get to support you. That's what love is… right?"

Out of nowhere, his eyes narrow, and a violent storm erupts in his face. She draws back, silently cursing herself for being the one to step on an invisible mine this time, and starts to backpedal. But he grabs her hand and stops her.

"No, you didn't say anything wrong. It's just... what you're describing... love, support—," he breaks off, but quickly regroups with a hard roll of his shoulders. "It's new to me. I'm the King of Evaders, I know... but when you asked about people in my past, if someone hurt me…," he darts a quick glance at her, then away. "Yeah. Yes. There was… there were betrayals."

He leaves it at that. He never seems to tell her anything that doesn't spark a dozen more questions, but she lets them all go, doesn't even try to fill in the blanks with wild speculation. She's resigned to letting him reveal himself at his own pace… and to deal with whatever comes.

"I'm so sorry," she says, caressing his cheek, heart aching for him... but her touch doesn't ease him this time. New storm clouds are roiling and threatening, darkening his face, his body so tense and coiled she can feel it in the air.

"I don't ever want to do that," he says through clenched teeth. "Not to you. Not to the boys."

She takes his whiskered chin between her fingers and makes him look at her. "And what's my response to that?"

He doesn't pull away, though his nostrils are flaring like a bull's. "That you trust me," he grumbles.

"Yes, I do. You're a good man."

She wills him to shut up and accept, even as he shakes his head and gives her a look that says she's hopelessly naive, or a gift, or both.

"Ka-boom," he sighs, making hopping, explosive gestures in the air with his hands. "Ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-fucking-boom."

"And look," she says, sitting up straight, hand sweeping her body like she's a game-show hostess. "So many mines, and not a mark on me!"

She smiles at him, doesn't stop until this new darkness of his has passed away, his hard eyes have softened and he's found the equilibrium to smile back. He reaches out like she's a lifeline and traces her collarbone with warm, gentle fingers.

"You know, you really are different. Stronger. Braver," he says, eyes glistening."You amaze me."

His touch deepens then, grows more sensual, soothing, melting away her tension and bringing her back to a calm place where there are no storms, no mines...

"That's me," she murmurs, dropping her head to the side to encourage his caresses. "Stronger, braver and amazing." She looks past him at the twi-lit studio, and the fullness of all that's happened here suddenly washes over her — the joys and miseries, the many twists and turns that have brought her to such a deep, loving understanding of him... of herself... of them both.

"But I don't know how long it'll all last once I leave here," she says quietly, swallowing down a surprising amount of grief. "This place… it's special."

"So don't leave."

She glances at his very serious face. "Franco," she laughs. "I have to pick up the boys…"

"No, I mean… let part of yourself stay here, for safe-keeping. The part you're afraid you'll lose," he says, cradling her throat, his voice rising with energy. The idea seems to excite and inspire him, and he transforms into  _Franco_  again, right before her eyes — the Franco from last week, from her portrait… face soft and tender, wearing none of the pain or self-loathing so in evidence today… with her...

Tears burn behind her eyes. She takes his hand in her small ones and turns it, examines it. She loves his hands, the size, the shape, the grace of them… and she can't help but wonder if he'd be better off without love after all, without feeling the need to confess, to purge himself, to be better...

"And you'll guard it for me?" she says, careful not to betray her thoughts.

His smile is slow and warm… fully Franco. "With my life," he says.

She leans up and kisses him then — maybe because it's been too long, or because he looks so beautiful… maybe because she's grateful and relieved that they've connected again. Maybe because he's happy, and she wants to believe that she makes him happy, that love makes him happy... and she wants to somehow bookmark this moment, plant a flag here so she can refer them both back to it if the darkness comes again. But regardless of the reason, it's not a hesitant or gentle kiss — it's hard, startling and voracious — and he returns it, amplifies it with a full-throated groan as he takes her face in his hands, surges to his knees above her…

But he suddenly tears his mouth away and crushes his brow down onto hers.

"Come to me here, once a week," he says, voice hoarse and urgent. "Forget about everything, leave the world on that fucking doorstep and just come to me."

She's half-crazed, but the fantasy thrills her, makes her blood sizzle. His full lower lip is shining in the low light… and she has to taste it, bite it before whispering…

"And then what…?"

"We'll make a  _new_  world." He holds her head tightly, like he's trying to lay his vision out in her mind. "Our own world."

"How will we do that…?" she purrs, moving in for another kiss, but he holds her away now and finds her eyes. He looks so sincere, so intense... as though this is a legitimate proposition...

It snaps her back to reality. "Franco—," she says, shaking her head to clear it. "I can't—"

"—One afternoon a week, that's all. Right here. We can make it work. You can come visit yourself," he smiles.

His certainty is so compelling she feels lightheaded with possibilities, even starts to review her schedule in her mind...

"And... do what, exactly?" she says, a bit breathlessly.

"We'll explore… we'll play together…"

"Play? Like...,"

"Continue what we started today. But no more hiding or bullshit or—"

"—Can we make art?"

"Yes!" he laughs, kisses her, laughs again. "Whatever we want! We can make art…," he slows down, eyes moving over her face like a caress. "We can make love..."

The words burn through her, leave her stirred and dizzy... yet she needs to be careful with him, so careful. "We can... open ourselves...?"

His lips part with a small gasp. She notices a shadow pass over his face... but neither one says a word.

_**To be continued...** _


	18. Chapter 18

Previously:

_"We'll explore… we'll play together…"  
_

_"Play? Like...,"_

_"Continue what we started today. But no more hiding or bullshit or—"_

_"—Can we make art?"_

_"Yes!" he laughs, kisses her, laughs again. "Whatever we want! We can make art…," he slows down, eyes moving over her face like a caress. "We can make love..."_

_The words burn through her, leave her stirred and dizzy... yet she needs to be careful with him, so careful. "We can... open ourselves...?"_

_His lips part with a small gasp. She notices a shadow pass over his face... but neither one says a word._

* * *

Elizabeth is reeling, anxious, vaguely guilty, wildly aroused by the idea of meeting Franco here — a few precious hours a week of this profound intimacy, the possibility of pushing boundaries… of letting go…

He's holding her throat in a hand that always feels huge and dangerous. He squeezes lightly, watches her reaction with glittering eyes and an expression that shifts between apprehension and dark hunger. She feels like she's slipping into a dreamworld of twilight and shadows… until he sits back, lifts her hand and presses it flat against his heart.

"What color would you say my skin is?" he says softly.

She blinks, taken aback, confused by the sudden shift. Without thinking, she finds herself saying, "Um, flesh tone."

He smiles gently and trails his thumb along her jaw. "No… in this particular light. Really look."

She rouses enough to feel his warm skin under her palm… the sheen of perspiration, the generous spray of hair… and gradually she brings her focus to the sculpted form of his torso, the curve of his pectoralis muscle, bathed in twilight…

"A dark bluish-purple…?" she says.

He leans close and whispers in her ear like a caress, "Is it?"

She melts at that, closes her eyes, doesn't want to think... but her mind has gone ahead and is sorting through an old box of crusty and misshapen oil paint tubes, looking for a name…

"Winsor Violet," she says, surprising herself.

"That's very precise. Now  _your_  skin…," he says, cradling her head, brushing his lips down the length of her throat. "Is hyacinths in springtime."

She shivers at the lingering wet heat of his breath. "That's very poetic… a little cheesy…"

"Well… you bring out my inner hopeless romantic." She can feel his smile as he lightly kisses her mouth. She parts her lips for him, but he continues…

"Where does my skin color fall on the value scale, white being number one?"

She's growing impatient, doesn't want quizzes or lessons — she wants something entirely different from him after so long apart, and angles up for a real kiss… but he holds her head still.

"One to ten. Look closely." He leans back, lets go of her hand, and slowly runs his own over his chest as she watches, mesmerized… and gradually she's able to make out a variety of colors and tones she hadn't noticed before… as well as the texture of his skin under his own fingers, the sensuous way he's touching himself… the movement of his breath…

"Six," she says, and follows the path of his hand with her own, drawing her fingertips down his sternum, over the undulations of his abdominal muscles, to his navel… and below, along the trail of hair that disappears into the towel wrapped securely around his hips. "Maybe seven."

"Which is it?" His tone is low – part teacher, part inquisitive colleague… part aroused lover.

The tension flowing through her body is delicious. "Seven," she murmurs.

He nods and lowers his mouth to her breast, lips barely grazing as he speaks. "How would you mix the color, using the Zorn palette?"

She shivers and slips her hand into his hair. His question is gibberish, little more than vibrations against her skin, moving like fingers between her legs… until the words abruptly pierce her mounting frustration like headlights through fog — Anders Zorn, Swedish, nineteenth century figurative painter, famous for using a palette consisting of only four colors. She quickly identifies those colors, mixes two of them in her mind's eye, sees the result clear as day…

"Cadmium red medium and ivory black," she says, firmly, decisively… until his tongue flicks her nipple, rendering her mute…

"That's it?" he whispers around the tightening skin. "No white?"

Of  _course_. She mixes that in, too… and it's perfect… as perfect as his lips on her, sucking…

"Yes… titanium whi—"

_"—Titanium_?" He rears back in mock horror. "For flesh? Never. Lead white. Warm… creamy…," he says, returning his mouth to her breast.

"Too toxic," she gasps, arching her back...

"Only a little." He lifts his head, catches her eye. "It's risky... but taking risks is what you want... right, Elizabeth?"

And it quickly becomes clear to her, from his tone and darkening expression, that he's no longer talking about painting…

_**To be continued...** _


	19. Chapter 19

His mouth is still poised above her breast, warm breath bathing her skin, and her hand is in his hair — she could pull him down, continue this... but for some reason, he's chosen this moment to challenge her... and painting is such a useful metaphor...

She tucks strands of falling hair behind his ear. "If we do want to take risks," she says. "Why limit our palette, when there are so many other beautiful colors out there?"

A shadow passes over his face again and as he sits up, all playfulness gone, she can't help but mildly curse herself.

"Because... when trying anything new, it's best to start slowly," he says, pausing as though weighing heavy words. "To gain an understanding of approaches… and materials. To find out if it's even a medium we want to work in. And if it is… if it feels right… that's when we begin adding more colors."

His jaw is clenching, but his eyes are searching her face… and after all the agony they've just been through, his fear of  _corrupting_  her, she can scarcely believe what she thinks she's hearing. "We? Are you saying, Franco… are you willing to... explore—"

"—What I'm  _saying_ ," he cuts in, but stops, swallows and looks away. He's silent for so long, she's afraid she misinterpreted.

Finally he blows out a blast of air and shakes his head. "I'm saying that you seem to think there's something…  _salvageable_ … from the swamp of my sexual history," he says bluntly, dropping the bullshit, the metaphors, the innuendos, and simply dumping everything on the floor in front of them. "I'm done holding you at arm's length, Elizabeth, okay? I want to make you happy, so if you want… if you want—," he throws his arms wide, and she can feel his tension vibrating through the gathering darkness.

"—I don't know what I want," she says breathlessly, partly to rescue him, partly because she's mortified at being so nakedly called out. "But… thank you. For offering. I know how you feel about—"

"—It's just…," he interrupts again, eyes hard on the blanket in front of him. "We have so much to explore together, right  _here_ , without going  _there_. I just wish that could be enough for you."

She cringes, feels stabbed by the words, body flushing… and it's far too familiar, sends her back to a state she thought she'd outgrown. "It  _is_  enough… of course it is," she rushes to soothe. "It's just—"

"—Shiny and new. I get it." He slumps as though releasing a burden. "Anyway… the offer's out there, so…," he trails off… then looks at her sharply. "Limited palette  _only_."

She nods, still reeling, not quite sure what she's agreeing to… and gradually she becomes aware of a knot tightening in her chest… a suspicion, a growing anger that, consciously or no, he used  _guilt —_ as so many have done before — as a way of putting her in her place.

"You know, that wasn't very nice," she says, voice even, but chilly. "Offering me something, then making me feel bad if I want to take you up on it."

He scowls, starts to speak... then tilts his head at her like a curious dog. "Huh. Really? Is that what I did?"

"Yes, it is," she says through clenched teeth.

A street lamp suddenly blinks on close outside. Enough light slices through gaps in the shades that she can see his brow furrowing, the kaleidoscope shifting… and then his mouth slides into a tight half-smile.

"Wow. Okay. Defense mechanism, I guess. Head 'em off at the pass."

His resistance is falling away, attitude softening... but she wants to stay mad.

"You're nothing  _but_  defense mechanisms," she says, with residual grumpiness.

"Yep... held together by stupidity. And boatloads of charm." He flashes her a dazzling, apologetic smile, and she can't help but grudgingly smile back, brush his hair from his shoulder, let her hand linger...

"And good intentions. However misguided?"

He nods, tilts his head again and lays his cheek on the back of her hand. "I'm sorry I made you feel bad, Elizabeth," he says. "Baby steps."

"Baby steps through the minefield," she sighs, but shifts closer, leans into the warmth of his side… where she should have been all along. The guilt and shame have faded to a simmer inside her, but his words burrowed deep, and made an impression. It had never occurred to her that he might share her insecurities… that he might believe he's not enough to satisfy  _her_ …

She lifts her chin and presses her lips to his hair. "I love what were creating together. Honestly. I don't need more. I didn't mean—,"

"—You don't know what you'll need," he says wearily. "No one does."

Maybe that's true. She didn't know she'd need him… couldn't have imagined it. Yet here she is, in spite of the struggle and heartache — maybe  _because_  of it, and all they've come through to get here. And she doesn't want to be anywhere else.

"I do trust you, you know?" she says.

He stiffens, turns his head, seems distinctly uncomfortable again.

"You still don't trust yourself."

"Hell no," he grumbles. "But I trust you. That'll have to be enough."

She snuggles against him and he eases, melts into her. "We'll trust each other, then," she says. They're quiet for a time, simply resting together... and Elizabeth gradually notices that their breathing is synchronizing. She can't tell if it's a natural result of being so close, or a deliberate modulation on one or both of their parts — another small negotiation between them, like everything today — a compromise for the sake of comfort, a better understanding, a moment of peace. And with an unpleasant jolt, it occurs to her that there may come a time when compromise won't be possible… when her demands will have to be met in full…

She's distracted from the thought by a glare hitting the corner of her eye. She turns toward it, sees that it's a shaft of light from the street lamp, slicing through the shade and hitting Franco square in the chest... just over his heart. Her breath catches at the sight, and as tends to happen in this otherworldly place, her imagination moves beyond the mundane to the mystic, and suggests that it's a sign — intentional and elemental as stone bowls and fire that burns away demons... or black marks on cheeks that lay claim and transform. She knows it's absurd to be so moved by an accidental trick of light, but she very gently lifts her hand to the bright splash on his chest and traces the shape with her forefinger, willing it not to disappear.

The touch startles him. She feels his heart leap and they both sit up, eyes meeting. And because it's impossible not to, she kisses him… and when she pulls back, his eyes are closed, full lips parted… so beautiful, so trusting… waiting...

But she's compelled to see the light on his chest again, the way it illuminates his heart — in direct contradiction to everything he believes about himself. Fascinated, she watches it expand and contract with his breath, and she begins playing with it, creating shapes with her hand, letting it flow through her parted fingers and onto his skin like water…

"Are you making shadow animals?" he laughs warmly into her hair.

She looks up at him, feels her delight spread openly over her face… and it seems to undo him. He sighs, takes her face between his palms and kisses her, so deeply her bones liquefy. His heart is pounding under her hand, body so solid and strong… tongue moving slowly in her mouth, savoring her… and she's merging with him, losing time and balance, and she lays her other hand on his stomach to steady herself. His muscles ripple under fevered skin... and she's overwhelmed by memories of him, the way he moves, his shuddering cries... and suddenly she needs to go much lower…

She breaks away from the kiss. "I want to do things to you," she gasps, barely recognizing herself, and glares down at the towel wrapped around his hips. "But I can't… not while you have that on."

His lips are swollen, eyelids heavy. He gives her a slow smile as he leans back on his elbows, hair falling behind him, and stretches out his legs… hot gaze never leaving her.

"Take it off me," he says.

She goes up in flame and wastes no time pulling the tucked-in corner of the towel free. He's locked into her eyes, devouring her from under his brow, pupils blown black and penetrating. She opens the towel to reveal his heavy erection, reaches for him… and at the first touch of her hand, his cock leaps, hips buck, head drops back exposing his throat… and everything about him screams:

_Fuck me now_ …

She would love to — she's soaking wet, pulsating — but makes herself wait. Instead, she leans down and tucks her hair behind her ear so he can watch her slowly lick from his base to his tip, circle the silken glans with her tongue, then take him between her lips… but just barely. He hisses, body going rigid, long fingers reaching for her…

And she pulls away, sits up on her haunches and gives him a huge, devilish smile. "I'm loving this," she says.

" _Shit_ ," he laugh-groans, collapsing onto his back. "Talk about skills…"

She laughs, too, joy and freedom bubbling inside and lifting her until she feels like she could fly. She keeps laughing, can't seem to stop... and he joins her, carried along, both growing helpless in the grip of it, like little kids. The sound rings through the studio as they double over, shedding hours and layers of tension, until very gradually, through leftover giggles, they wipe away their tears and settle down together into shared, tender smiles...

"I love you," he says, warm and soft as a summer's day. "And I'm not just saying that so you'll get back to what you were doing."

She laughs again, takes his hand and knows he means it, knows he delights in her happiness, as she delights in his. His generosity has amazed her from the beginning — his genuine concern for Jake, his honest, unwavering friendship and support for her, the way he challenges and inspires her, cherishes her, understands her, makes her feel so  _alive..._

She'll get back to what she was doing, no question about it. But right now her heart is constricting almost painfully…

But he's busy purring and stretching out on the blanket like a cat. The purple of twilight has faded to silver and gray and black… but his face moves into the shaft of light that had been on his chest and he stays there, closes his eyes and sighs deeply as though basking in the glow of a radiant sun...

And now she can't breathe at all.

Thanks to his prodding, her eyes are serving her in ways they haven't in years, and she's able to discern nuances of color and tone, the subtle play of light and shadow over his form… and she drinks in the living work of art before her — his beautiful, perfectly proportioned, utterly masculine body, his long hair flowing, lips full and shining…

So naturally, powerfully sensual… so available and ready… completely  _hers_. She wants to draw and paint him, forever. She wants to crawl over every inch of him, memorize every plane and contour until she could sculpt him from memory…

She realizes he's watching her.

"What are you thinking," he says, low voice moving through her like waves.

She tries to speak… but nothing comes. She's too deeply moved, too deeply in love…

"Tell me."

She can only make small, shapeless sounds and shake her head.

He searches her face for a long moment, expression so soft and tender… then he gently takes her hand and draws her up to her knees, slides his palm around her thigh, guides her leg over his hip until she's straddling him.

"Tell me," he says, thick and dark as molasses.

She wants to… but what she's feeling is beyond her words, maybe beyond any language. Maybe too much…

He cradles her hips in those enormous hands that make her feel tiny and fragile, positions her, and she trembles at the feel of him, hot and hard at the opening of her body. As she presses her palms into his chest to prepare for him, she sees a tiny shimmer fall onto his skin, and only then does she realize she's crying…

"So exquisitely beautiful," he whispers… and his hands begin pulling her down as he presses up, moaning, eyes fixed on hers… penetrating her body so slowly, overwhelming her mind and her senses until every cell is vibrating and alive… and why is it so much more vivid and  _real_  this time, as though all that came before was a dream… or simply a rehearsal for this…

Impaled now, stretching, burning in every way… she collapses on top of him with animal sounds that would have mortified her yesterday, but now seem a more natural part of her than her own voice. His arms swallow her, his chest and throat vibrate with sound, and she breathes him in, tastes his skin, exists only inside this moment of connection, moving her hips to feel him, everywhere…

He's rising up, whispering meaningless words, lifting her, muscles flexing… and then his legs are crossing beneath her and she's settling into the hollow of his lap, winding around him, rocking, touching his face with trembling fingertips as he touches hers… and as his eyes watch her, brimming with love, she realizes that for the first time, nothing is separating them — no secrets, no veneer, nothing practiced or protected...

He's finally  _with_  her… all of him…

"I love you so much," she manages to whisper, though her heart is exploding. " _I love you._ "

He swims into focus through her tears… but instead of joy, she sees a sudden pained hesitation, a slight hardening of his mouth that stabs her like a knife. She flinches, brushes her lips over his, silently pleading…

_No… please don't… not now…_

But he can't help himself.

"Do you?" he says… so raw and uncertain, foot poised over the landmine, ready to stomp. "Is this really about more than just sex for you?"

She collapses inside, bites back a sob. It's a devastating question, but she understands its source, given her focus on his past, her intense desire for him… but she wraps herself around him, arms and legs and heart and soul, and whispers through his soft, silken hair and into his ear, whispers so fiercely she hopes it becomes part of him forever, without question or doubt…

"It's about  _you_. I  _see_  you, Franco, and everything I see, I love. Everything. Please, you have to accept that."

His arms tighten around her, half crushing, half clinging.

"Please," she says again, holding him just as tightly, willing him to believe…

But the resistance is rising between them…

"Maybe you see too much," he says, like stones grinding.

A surge of panic makes her wrap her arm around his head, press her mouth hard into his hair…

"No.  _No_. Don't you dare push me away. Not now."

He makes a sudden sound of anguish and frustration, his body quaking like he's struggling to throw off invisible chains… but he quickly slackens… arms falling to his sides.

"I can't. I can't. I'm so sorry…," he says, hot gasps against her breast. "Just… take what you need."

" _You're_  what I need!" she cries, grasping his face in her hands, shaking him.

"I'm sorry," he says, and she watches, stunned, grief-stricken as he retreats again into the prison of a past that doesn't belong to him, into the arms of ghosts he didn't create… fading before her eyes from the world they're building together.

Her world.

And no way —  _no fucking way_  — is she about to let that happen.

_**To be continued...** _


	20. Chapter 20

An almost ungovernable frustration burns through her... and burns out, leaving her as sad as she's ever been. She understands… she does. She knows it's not his fault, knows this is killing him, that he would stay with her if he could. How many times in her life has she been overwhelmed to the point of paralysis by fear and shame and self-doubt ... and uttered those same words:

_I can't… I can't do this…_   _I can't feel this… it's too much, too much…_

And so much guilt, so many regrets...

_I'm sorry I lied, I'm sorry I cheated, I'm sorry for who I am and for what I did and for what I didn't do..._

She understands.

And it has to end.

His arms are slack at his side, but she holds him, rocks his body, lets her frustration transform into something else — something ferocious and determined and unbreakable that feels bottomless and new, but has always,  _always_ , been there...

"You can," she whispers, kisses the top of his head, presses her cheek to his silky hair. "You will... I promise."

He's still... so still. And so tired of fighting...

"What do you want from me, Elizabeth? _"_ he says, the smallest wisps of sound.

Oh, that's easy...

"Everything. I want everything," she says. She wants his laughter and his ecstasy, his friendship, and his hair twisted around her fingers. She wants to watch him paint and lose himself in the high of creating and to hear his thoughts as they lay intertwined at night.

And the only thing standing in the way is him.

He seems to sink even farther away from her, shakes his head weakly.

"You said you trust me, Franco."

"I do trust you."

"Then take everything that's hurting you and haunting you and holding you back, and lay it all at my feet."

He looks up at her, on the verge of despair. "How..."

"I want you to submit to me," she says.

His eyes fly wide. " _Jesus…,_ " he gasps, shuddering, arms stiffening at his sides.

She didn't choose that word — it simply slipped out fully-formed, with a quiet authority that surprises her. She doesn't understand the implications, but from his reaction,  _he_  does... and it's tapped into something deep within both of them, that feels as right and natural as breathing.…

She leans down, brushes her lips over his mouth, whispers, "Submit to me," watches his eyelids flutter, feels his body spasm with pleasure… but he's pulling away, fighting...

She says it again, stroking his face, rolling her hips, squeezing him tight inside her...

His head jerks, hands curl into fists. "Stop," he groans. "You don't know what you're asking…"

Her mind flashes over possible ramifications, dark scenarios he's been hinting at... but she dismisses them all. Nothing matters now but finding a way to wrest him out of himself…

And suddenly she remembers floating, wrapped in euphoria, far away from herself... the state he called  _sub-space_. He gave that to her... and if there's a way of lifting him out of himself like that... away from the torment of his mind, even for a little while...

_I could only get there through pain…_

She winces at the memory... can't bear the idea of hurting him…

Yet she  _can_  imagine taking him to the bright razor's edge, as he did to her, and keeping him there — his body taut and straining and beautiful — then making him fall, watching him explode into bliss. She can imagine holding him close afterward, pressing a cup of cool water to his lips… caring for him, loving him…

A change comes over her then, a serene confidence. She slowly lowers her mouth, lets her breath bathe his throat… grazes it with her teeth. She licks, tastes heat, salt… gathers a bit of tender skin between her teeth, nibbles lightly... then harder...

He shivers, hisses…

She eases back, licks again, feels him begin to relax… then she sinks her teeth into his throat in earnest... and she only lets go when he bucks his hips and jerks away with a wild cry…

"What are you  _doing_?"

She looks into his face to gauge his reaction, see if she's right... he's flushed, skin damp with perspiration, pupils dilated. She caresses his parted lips with her fingertips. She's right.

"Tell me what to do," she whispers.

He's blank for only a moment, then he sways as though caught in a sudden breeze. "Oh fuck, _don't,_ " he breathes, eyes slipping closed... and when he opens them again, they're dark with warning. He lifts his hand and wraps it around her own throat, squeezing just enough to spark a twinge of fear...

"I said I don't want this shit anywhere near you."

But he's rigid inside her, trembling like he's fighting for balance on the edge of a knife… and she could make him go either way…

She slowly leans into his grip, feels his fingers tighten, then yield as she returns her mouth to his throat, finds the pulse point behind his ear, the subtle movement of his life-force beneath her lips...

"Let go," she whispers. "Submit to me."

He groans... and her senses are so heightened in the dusky glow of this magical room that she can almost taste his resistance, smell the struggle raging all around her, deep inside her... in the rolling strain of his hips… the hot energy yearning toward her, filling her, then falling away…

And she rides him... a slow, steady rhythm, squeezing his cock, fingernails and teeth grazing his skin with the promise of something he seems to need... until with one last shuddering sigh, he loses the battle...

"Harder," he whispers... a broken sound, as though he's disgusted by his own weakness. But he's still tense, unyielding. She wants a sign of genuine permission, so she waits, motionless… painfully aware of how vulnerable he is… how aroused…

_I know the danger… how easy it is to let desire and arousal take you to dark places. Places you can't handle..._

Could this be dangerous, as he said? She can't imagine how, but she has no experience with these things... so she waits...

And gradually, a change comes over him… an easing, an opening… a profound relaxation. She can't know what potent cocktail of memory or conditioning she's triggered in him, but he's finally melting as though under the caress of an invisible hand… and when he releases her throat, drops his head back and offers himself to her, it's like light tearing through darkness… a breathtaking  _yes_  that fills her with joy.

With tears in her eyes, she very slowly glides her lips over his throat… gently pulling a bit of skin between her teeth, and increases the pressure until he cries out and thrusts up hard inside her. She clamps down, hangs on, tries to imagine what he's experiencing as his body stiffens, his cries peak… and she lets go. He slackens, panting…

"Doesn't this disgust you…," he gasps.

In answer, she leans back, gently brushes long, damp tendrils of hair from his face. "I love you," she whispers. Cradling the nape of his neck, she returns to his throat, feels the impression of her teeth in his soft flesh. "I love you," she murmurs, kissing, licking, soothing the tender spots… until she suddenly bites down again, taking him by surprise. He yelps, bucks wildly, nearly knocking her from his lap, then dissolves beneath her…

"Oh, fuck yeah," he moans. "Yes… please… harder."

She hesitates, afraid of really hurting him, of breaking the skin. She knows how fragile a bared throat can be… but she can feel the chains loosening, and he wants to continue… to go deeper into a torment, into a pleasure she can't understand…

So she goes with him... and soon, she's in control of his every response, every gasp and cry... his surrender deepening with each increasingly intense experience. She thinks in those terms... an _experience_ , not pain... a _sensation_ , that's all, not pain...

_I craved sensation..._

And in between  _experiences_ , she soothes his wounds with her tongue, tasting him, loving him. She wanted his submission, and here it is... but she didn't know how profoundly erotic it would be, to harness and control his strength, his will, to watch him lose himself in this strange way... to see deep into his soul, to maybe see something she has no business seeing...

_Maybe you've seen too much..._

"Are you all right," she whispers. His eyes drift open, barely, pupils so black they seem bottomless… but his gaze on her is adoring, almost worshipful…

His lips move soundlessly, forming one word —  _more_...

Tears sting her eyes. More means  _pain_... she can't deny that now. More. She's been holding back, hasn't given him everything she can... everything he  _needs_...

She swallows a cry, weaves her fingers into his hair, arches his head back and sinks her teeth deep into his neck, so deeply she can feel the tendons shrieking, and she doesn't let go, even as he bucks, cries out… body shuddering, hands reaching for her... and just as she senses he's about to come, she abruptly releases him... looks into his face…

His eyes are closed, mouth open in near-ecstasy, skin flushed and damp. He's trembling, throbbing inside her, keening softly… so close, so lost… trusting her utterly.

She knows exactly where he is — it's the same place he took her — and now she knows something of the power he felt…

Her orgasm takes her by surprise — an eruption from deep inside that convulses her, makes her cling to him, riding wave after wave until it leaves her dizzy, weak and trembing when it finally subsides… lips pressed to his hair…

"Mine…," she gasps… and she realizes that she's been saying it for some time…

_Mine… mine…_

When has she ever been able to truly say that about anyone?

"Yours," he's moaning, rock-hard but motionless inside her. Buzzing with tiny aftershocks, she touches his face, drinks in his helpless beauty… his mouth, so close… and she needs that mouth, bites his full lower lip, slips her tongue inside. He stiffens, doesn't respond. He's panting, struggling, muscles twitching… and it occurs to her that he's waiting for something…

She squeezes and pulses around him, brings him right the edge... but still he holds on, holds back… until she presses her lips to his ear and whispers, "I want you to come."

He collapses then, with a sound of absolute release, shuddering as he comes inside her in long, deep waves... and his body seems to fall away from her in slow motion… far, far away...

And she smiles as she lets him go...

**_To be continued..._ **


	21. Chapter 21

And Franco stays away... silent, immobile, lost and floating in bliss... if Elizabeth knows her sub-spaces. Her own mind is crystal-clear, her body humming with the feel of him, still snug inside her. And though she's dazed by recent events — stunned, in fact — there are things that need doing...

He seems vulnerable as a newborn, and it's triggered her fiercely protective instincts, compelling her to care for him as tenderly as he'd cared for her. She checks his breathing — slow and steady. Checks his face for signs of distress and notes the small, enigmatic smile on his lips. Sweat is drying on his skin and he's shivering in the cool air, so she drapes herself over him, finds the edge of the blanket, pulls it around them both and holds him close. As she listens to the gentle rhythm of his beloved heart beat, she's able to exhale a long-held breath... and try to rest.

Her chest is tight, ears are ringing... yet they seem foreign, like they don't quite belong to her. She feels like she's been on a speeding, pitching roller-coaster, like parts of herself were left behind at the hair-pin turns and haven't quite caught up. A strange joy is bubbling in her heart, threatening to spill out... but she keeps it inside and lets it spread through her instead. With the exception of her children, she's never felt so profoundly connected to anyone, so high with discovery, wide open and raw... and she barely recognizes this newly-minted version of herself — this person who would dare to create the exact scenario she'd imagined:

_Making him fall, watching him explode into bliss... holding him close afterward, pressing a cup of cool water to his lips… caring for him, loving him…_

Water.

_You should stay hydrated_ , he'd said...

She sees the yellow mug glowing on the shadowy floor nearby and starts to reach for it... stops when his arms slide heavily around her.

"Stay," he breathes.

She tingles at the sound and stays, tries to clear her busy mind and simply  _be there_  with him. But soon he's the one moving... sluggishly lifting and pressing her hand to his cool forehead and saying, voice is thick as honey...

"So quiet in here."

He sags for a moment as though the effort exhausted him, then he slides her hand down between them and presses it over his heart.

"So full in here," he murmurs... and adds, with a sleepy smile, "You're holding my heart in the palm of your hand."

#

Inevitably, tragically, time passes, euphoria fades... and doubts emerge...

She's still draped over him, but is growing restless. He slipped away again, hasn't moved a muscle since he spoke, isn't responding to his name or to gentle nudges. He's awake, but his energy is so subdued, so drastically different from anything she's ever felt from him that, despite his sweet words, she can't help but worry something's wrong. And all she can focus on is the fact that he never wanted this... that he warned her, resisted her at every turn...

_I'm sorry, I can't... I don't want this shit anywhere near you... Oh fuck, don't..._

A wave of nausea washes over her — she coerced him. She did. She pushed him too far. In trying to free him, maybe she  _broke_  him somehow... broke his will, the way a horse is broken... drove him into unbearable memories, made him relive trauma. And who the hell does she think she is to take such risks and liberties... and is it possible that, on some level, she  _enjoyed_  inflicting pain on him…?

Her inner nurse demands to check his throat for damage, for blood... but she can't bring herself to raise her eyes and see what she's capable of.

Mercifully, he begins to stir... and right away she senses the familiar  _distancing_  he sometimes does, the psychic withdrawal. And he makes it a reality by grasping her hips, lifting her and easing himself from inside her body...

The loss of him hurts, both physically and emotionally. It confirms her fears, feels like an outright rejection... but he doesn't move away — he tucks her into his side and wraps a heavy arm around her. And though she lays her head on his shoulder, her mind is busy with the hundred questions she should and shouldn't ask... with the tender, reassuring words perched on the tip of her tongue... but until she knows his state of mind, she decides it's best to remain silent.

It's not long before he draws a shaky breath...

"So…," he says quietly. "You saw...  _that_  happen."

His shame is palpable, and she whispers her fingertips over his chest to soothe him.

"I did," she says. "And Franco—"

"—Correction," he interjects, voice so rough she flinches. "You  _made_  that happen."

A thrill of danger surges through her as he suddenly wraps her in a paralyzing bear hug and presses his mouth to her hair. "You  _had_  me, Elizabeth. Completely. You were—," he breaks off, shaking, and seems to struggle for control. "Nobody's done that to me… for years. Not for years."

She's stunned — is he praising her, reproaching her... something else? There must be a perfect way to respond, perfect words in a perfect tone… but her intuitive understanding of what he needs is long gone, as is most of her bold, newly-minted self… and all she can do is return his savage hug and ask the obvious:

"Are you all right…?"

His breathing is fast and shallow, and he swallows hard, arms slackening around her...

"I don't know," he says like gravel. "I don't know how to feel yet."

And then he sinks into a heavy, very private silence.

She waits, torn... she longs to enter the silence and say,  _Tell me what you're going through, s_ _hare it with me_...

But it's unyielding, as though he's shared enough with her for one day and doing so was a tragic mistake... as though the intense pleasure they created together was a perversion, not to be discussed... and the connection they shared is lying around them in tatters.

Or maybe it's all intact, perfect and miraculous and he's just reeling, needs time to process...

Maybe they both do.

So she waits and replays his words, trying to read the best into them...

_You had me, Elizabeth... completely... nobody's done that to me for years..._

She  _did_  have him... and it was glorious. But she can't think about that until she knows if it's a  _good_  thing... so instead she focuses on his warm, masculine presence beside her, the now-familiar groans and creaks of the building, the wind picking up outside, making shadows of tree limbs dance on the drapes...

They haven't left this studio all day, but they've taken a hell of a journey together — from a failed, ill-conceived seduction, to this epic development... whose outcome is yet-to-be-determined. They've found love here, no doubt about it — surprising in its swiftness, depth and power — but now she's seen something she wasn't meant to see, took him to a place he didn't want to go. And whether that binds them or breaks them, she realizes with a stab of pain, is up to him...

She tunes in to him... to his subtle sounds and movements as he deals with that inner circus of his. She tries to envision its contents — the years of frenzied art-making and whirlwind of fame, the vivid ghosts, the madness... hazy concepts like  _dominance, submission, pain_... and all those pesky newly-acquired emotions — what they are, what they mean, are they too much to feel, too difficult to navigate — and wouldn't it be better to abandon this whole doomed enterprise of connection, healing and redemption and just go it alone...

And what to do about this  _Elizabeth_ person...

What to do, indeed.

She knows that if she were to watch his face, even in these shadows, she would see his kaleidoscope shifting as he works his way through it all — expressions crystallizing then dissolving... one after another after another. She knows them all so well now that she can't help but smile...

He must feel the tiny movement against his chest — or maybe he feels her wave of joyful love splashing him — and he weaves his fingers into her hair, lifts her head and looks deeply into her face. His gaze is soft, wary... haunted.

"So...," he says thickly, clears his throat and tries again. "So, I haven't asked... are  _you_  okay? Are you freaked out?"

She locks into his eyes and slowly shakes her head, touched that he's placing her right smack in the center ring of his crowded circus.

"Absolutely not freaked out," she says. "Just a little… out of my element."

Clouds of apprehension gather in his face, and she quickly dispels them with a touch to his cheek. "I do know one thing for sure," she says, hot tears coming. "I'm more in love with you than ever."

His eyes slam shut, evicting her, and she feels a harsh spasm ripple through his body. She expects him to withdraw again, to deflect or deny the words as he has so many times before... but he pulls a deep breath, holds it... releases it slowly through rounded lips... and he lets the words stand. When he opens his eyes to her again, they're dazed, wet... and grateful. He nods once.

"Okay," he says softly.

Elated, she leans up, slips her hand into his hair and kisses him tenderly. His lips part and his body eases, melting back in an attitude of surrender that inflames her all over again, returns her to the intoxicating beauty of his pleasure... her control over it... over  _him_...

A fierce clarity flares inside her then, burning away her crippling doubts and insecurities and replacing them with that strange, serene confidence she's felt off and on throughout the day. His open trust reminds her that she's  _worthy_  of trust... his surrender reminds her that she's capable of caring for him, of intuiting and giving him what he needs... and she chastises herself for waiting so long...

"I'm sorry," she whispers against his lips. "I should have said I love you right away, before you had a chance to make things up in that head of yours... and you did, didn't you?"

His eyes dart away.

"What did you tell yourself?"

"That... I'm a freak," he says with quiet disgust. "That I never should have let you see...  _that_. That you can't wait to get the hell away from me."

"Okay, clearly you're wrong, and you have to stop that right now. Hey," she says, cupping his chin firmly in her hand when he won't meet her eyes. "For the billionth time, I'm not going anywhere. I love what happened between us. I love the way you were with me… the way you opened up and trusted me. I love that you shared something so private and intimate. You have nothing to regret, Franco, nothing to be ashamed of. You were beautiful... you  _are_  beautiful."

She watches the words land... and renewed doubt darken his eyes. It seems that for every step forward, there's an equal step back...

"I. Love. You. Everything you are." She squeezes his chin, gives him a tenderly impatient smile. "You have  _got_  to learn to live with that. Okay?"

He tries and fails to smile back. "It's so complicated, Elizabeth."

"I know it is." And she does know... from what he's confessed to her, from all she's witnessed today — the twisted violence of his past, his vicious self-loathing — but they've also forged a connection she never dreamed was possible, and there's no way she's letting that go.

"And there's something else I know," she says. "We'll work through it all, whatever comes up. We will. Together."

He looks at her with cautious wonder, and takes her hand. Once, he might have responded by kissing her palm in a gently dismissive way that implied,

_No, you couldn't possibly know, but thanks for trying_ …

But now he watches as she very deliberately interlaces her fingers with his, joining their hands together. He slides his eyes to hers, looks deeply, and sees something that seems to make him melt with profound relief.

"All right," he breathes, like the fight has gone out of him once and for all, like his demons have packed up in disgust and gone home. "Yes. Please."

He touches her lips with his other hand, kisses her reverently, then very gently tucks her into his side again, wraps his arm around her, arranges her head on his shoulder, strokes her hair... all without disengaging their hands.

"So...," he says. "You really do love me."

"I really do love you." She lets the tears come then, feels them pool on the warm skin beneath her cheek...

"Okay. Okay," he says with a long, ragged sigh.

And he finally sounds like he accepts it.

"Can we just  _be_  for a while, Elizabeth?"

She settles deeply into the comfort of his embrace. It's fine by her.

#

They drift together, as they have so many times today. She's drowsy, but captivated by their still-joined hands resting on his chest, by how small her fingers are, nestled between his... how easily he could have stopped her earlier and taken control. She chuckles at the revelation that when it comes to power, size doesn't always matter...

"Hmm... what is it?" he breathes, energy hovering just above zero.

"I just... I didn't know I had that in me," she murmurs.

He draws her closer. "Mmm... I did."

"Since when?!" she says, alarmed by the notion that everyone but her spied some sort of leather-clad dominatrix lurking beneath her scrubs...

He laughs, low and warm. "Don't worry… just since today. I saw a gleam in your eye...,"

"A gleam, huh?"

"Well... maybe more of a glint. A  _hint_ … a glint that hinted."

"A glint," she repeats... thinks back...

And yes, there were moments her eyes would most definitely have been glinting — when she had him at her mercy, with her hands, with her mouth, her will... and the memories spark a tingling low in her belly...

"So… how do you feel about that," he says, and though he's lazily playing with the ends of her hair, there's a note of tension in his voice. "Do you enjoy that... role?"

Her body flushes with heat, embarrassment… deep pleasure. "What do you think?"

He rouses himself and languidly rolls on top of her, his weight making her feel fragile and wonderfully smothered.

"I think I want to hear you say it," he purrs, cradling her head in his large hands, eyes moving over her face like a caress. He kisses her then… sinking sensuously into her mouth, tongue so soft and skilled... teasing, then withdrawing...

"Do you enjoy doing that to me," he murmurs against her lips. "Do you enjoy controlling me…? Tell me…,"

"Yes," she breathes, instantly wet and wanting him, barely able to think. But there's no need for thought… it's simply true.

"How does it make you feel?"

And again, the truth comes with no effort, no shame. "Strong... confident."

He smiles, smooths her hair from her forehead with gentle thumbs. "What else?"

"Powerful," she says, marveling at her audacity as the word slips out.

His eyes sparkle with pride and he gives her head an affectionate wiggle. "Of  _course._ Because — all those things — that's who you  _are_."

Her breath catches and she gapes up at him, wants to respond but can't. It's one thing to temporarily feel those things in a very unusual situation. It's another thing entirely to claim them as part of her identity, to be seen that way, loved for it...  _celebrated_...

She starts to protest, but he brushes his lips over hers...

"Anything else?" he says.

And suddenly she's struck dumb as it hits her that there  _is_  something — a notion that's been growing all day, one she barely recognizes and can't believe is justified, given how often in her life she's been rejected. But still, it's  _there_...

"I feel like, maybe...," she begins, and halts, feeling ridiculous. But he's so loving and expectant, and he's trusted her with so much today, so much more than  _this..._

She decides to just plunge ahead. "I feel like maybe I really am... enough _._ "

He draws back and looks down at her, eyes wide with disbelief. "Enough? My God, Elizabeth...," he gasps. "You're  _everything_. How could you doubt that?"

The tenderness she'd seen in his face and tried to capture in charcoal, her first inkling of his love for her — it pours from him now, envelops her — a nourishing, healing warmth that sinks deep into the injured, lonely places she's been ignoring for years... and she's shocked to find that she's begun weeping uncontrollably, like the abandoned child that she was... that she  _is_...

"You're everything," he whispers, kissing her lips, her wet cheeks... and with a broken cry, she wraps herself around him, clings to him, desperately wishing away flesh and bone, separate minds and identities, everything that's keeping them apart — so she'll never be alone again...

And even as she longs to dissolve with him, she understands what's happening — with this simple gift of love, he's exposed a core wound in her that has never healed... that she simply pushed so far down she couldn't feel the pain of it anymore. But it seems wrong to explore it now. Selfish. And with a shock, she realizes that she's stepped almost effortlessly into the role of his savior... that she's made today about  _his_  pain,  _his_  healing...

It hadn't occurred to her that the healing could be mutual...

He's holding her in strong, unrelenting arms, purring sweet, soothing words... but it's suddenly much too much. She stiffens, unwinds her limbs from around him and drops back. No, now is not the time to delve into her little  _issues_...

"Wow." She rolls her eyes and laughs dismissively. "What the hell was  _that_...?"

He's watching her with gentle concern. "I love you," he says.

She nods, sniffles, wipes her nose, not quite able to look at him. He takes her chin in his hand, waits until she meets his eyes. "I love you. You deserve to be loved. You deserve to be cherished, Elizabeth. You deserve everything."

"Okay," she says, shifting beneath him, desperate now to catapult herself away from this place and be anywhere else. "What time is it?"

"Oh no. No you don't. You turned me inside out today, and now we get close to something of yours... and you want to run away?"

"I'm not running away, Franco. I have obligations. I have to get the boys from Grams'." Her voice is deliberately cool, reasonable — the voice of a good mom.

"Elizabeth," he says, frustration laced with pain. "What are you doing...? Please... don't you hide from me."

"I'm not. We're fine." She pushes him off and sits up too quickly, goes dizzy as she swivels her head around the darkened room, trying to locate her clothes. She feels her chest constricting, a sheen of sweat rising, can't get a breath... and she quite rationally concludes that she's on the verge of a panic attack.

"Elizabeth," he's saying from far away, his large hand poised on her back. "What's happening?"

"Fine. I'm fine," she says into thin, elusive air, and slides away to put distance between them. She presses trembling fingers to her wrist — elevated heart rate — and steels herself, breathes in as deeply as she can... two, three, four... out, two, three, four... in, two, three, four... out, two, three, four...

She feels his eyes hard on her, knows he's watching her with a mix of worry and hurt, hand still suspended, reaching...

But she recoils, even as she recognizes this feeling — it's the same overwhelming fear that made her leave him last week, the wail of  _I CAN'T_  surging up from the ancient wreckage inside. Grief slams her — she should be over this, past it, can't be back here at square one... not after everything that's happened here, not after getting a glimpse of the bold, newly-minted Elizabeth. She won't go back... she  _won't_...

She's hunched over, rocking herself, arms clasped tight around her upraised knees...

"It's nothing," she manages. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're a mess. You're terrified." He starts to move toward her, then jerks and freezes. "Of...  _me_?" he gasps, so plaintive and haunted it hurts her heart...

But she can't let him in, and defensively summons her inner bitch. "It's not always about  _you_ ," she snaps.

There's a long, cold pause, into which she could slip any number of apologies and explanations, but she holds her ground, hoping he'll just let her gather her wits along with her clothes and leave quietly until she can figure this out...

"Well," he says at last. "That was...  _really_   _really_   _mean_."

His voice is so small and sulky it's absurd. She glances at him, sees his comically exaggerated pout... and realizes it's supposed to be absurd.

"Mean, maybe," she says, struggling to stay defended, not to laugh. "But also  _true_."

He squints heavenward, appearing to ponder as he pushes up on his fists and slowly swings his body toward her. "I have yet to encounter  _anything_  I can't somehow make about myself," he says with a lopsided grin.

"Why doesn't that surprise me," she grumbles, but lets him pull her between his legs to his chest, wrap his arms around her and rest his chin on her head.

"So... can you be brave and tell me what's going on?"

She can, but she's not sure herself, so she shakes her head... oddly enjoying the sensation of his chin rubbing her scalp.

"Okay," he says. "But you can't just leave, remember? You have to talk to me. We promised."

She remembers... but needs time alone to reflect, to go to her mental attic and open up this particularly dusty box...

"Nothing is too small, Elizabeth. If it hurts you, it hurts me."

She believes him — it's the same for her. Instinctively, she nestles into huge, strong arms that make her feel so swaddled, so known and protected... so like a fiercely beloved child that she has to stifle a sob. She's never experienced anything like it... and one day she'll understand what it means to her and why it's such a difficult and scary thing to trust. And she'll tell him, she will. But not now, not today.

Instead, she lifts her eyes and finally forces herself to examine his throat. In the dim light she can make out a half dozen deep crescent marks, dark and angry on his pale flesh. It all floods back to her... his shuddering cries and yelps of pain, his thin, warm skin caught between her teeth, blood pulsing so close...

_If it hurts you, it hurts me..._

She raises her hand and touches one of the wounds she inflicted, then another. They're warmer than the surrounding skin. "Speaking of hurt...," she says softly.

He jerks his head away. "Elizabeth—"

"—I hurt you. That's what I want to talk about."

His chest tightens beneath her cheek, breath quickening. "You're deflecting," he says.

"Maybe I am. But you wanted to know how I felt, doing this to you. Now I want to know what it was like for you. Tell me... what did you feel? Was it like before, when you were younger?"

_When you were sick and out of control... when you needed PAIN in order to feel human..._

"I don't want to talk about that."

His face is turned away from her, and he sounds stricken. She shouldn't be asking, her emotions are too tangled — love and happiness spiked with guilt and shame... and a strange desire to  _punish_ someone _..._

_But not him._

"I don't like hurting you," she says, the truth of it twisting her heart. "I didn't want to do that."

"Yet you did," he says quietly. "Even though I asked you not to."

She flinches, whimpers like he plunged a knife into her gut, and tries to pull away... but he tightens his arms around her.

"I'm not angry, Elizabeth. I never would have agreed to it... but I needed it. I needed to be forced out of this insane fucking head of mine. You were relentless, irresistible, like steel... wrapped in satin. You took me to a place of pure feeling. You made me feel safe enough to go all the way there."

" _Safe_?" she gasps. "While I was  _hurting_  you?"

He pulls back just enough to look down at her, his eyes full of an adoration that shames her. "Yes... but...," he hesitates, as though searching for the right words. "It's not that simple. When I said before that no one's done that to me for years... the truth is, no one's  _ever_  done that to me... not to that degree. Maybe it was the tumor, but I never trusted anyone enough to let go like that, to let myself be so vulnerable."

He fades for a moment, but comes right back, a bit less sturdy, but no less honest. "You wouldn't let me hide in the past, Elizabeth. Somehow, you knew just what to do. You... were amazing."

"Well...," she says, abashed, flushing and wildly self-conscious. "You... you'll need a turtleneck."

He bursts out laughing. "Ha! Maybe a scarf. No, a  _cravat._ I could be one of those '60's jet-setter types, zipping through St. Tropez in my Alfa... a living goddess by my side."

The image brings a reluctant smile to her lips, but it doesn't last. She gingerly touches the marks again, one by one.

"Is there another way? I mean... without—,"

"—The cravat?" he laughs.

"Without the pain."

His smile slowly fades. "I don't know," he sighs. "I guess I don't know anything. I was so fucking horrified by who I was and what I'd done, and everything was all jumbled together... but, like you said earlier, maybe there are things that aren't all bad. Things that…," he trails off, expression darkening as though reminded of ghosts... and the danger of resurrecting them...

"...That we could explore together," she says, touching his face to bring him back.

His eyes clear and he gathers her close. "Yeah. As long as it's safe... for both of us. As long as it's something...  _you_  want."

She traces his mouth with her fingertips and suddenly feels so overwhelmed by it all — the glow of his approval, the excitement of stepping into this strange new world with him, his struggle toward self-acceptance that in some ways mirrors her own... and his willingness to be vulnerable. It's a place she hasn't quite reached yet.

"But we'll go slowly," he says. "One new color at a time."

She nods, and before she can think, she pulls him down for a ravenous kiss… and she never, ever wants to let him go. But she has to when he breaks the kiss and lowers his mouth to her throat, grazes the sensitive skin with his teeth... giving her a taste of what she gave him.

"I meant to ask," he whispers like liquid fire. "Does it arouse you... your power over me?"

Her body reacts almost violently — neck craning for more, pussy clenching, heat flaring in her veins...

"God, yes," she laughs, and turns in his arms, winds her legs around his waist. And as he laughs with her, his head drops back and the crescent marks on his throat flare at her like an accusation, once again flattening her with guilt, remorse...

It must show vividly in her face — he's there in an instant, attempting damage control...

" _Don't_ , Elizabeth," he says sternly. "It's all right. You have to understand — pain and pleasure are just labels. They're sensations on a continuum."

He searches her face. She knows he's looking for a sign of comprehension, but she has no way of relating to what he's saying, and can only look back helplessly...

"Okay." He strokes his goatee like a professor lost in thought. "Okay, let's try an experiment."

He slips his arm around her waist and like a slow wave he bends forward, gently lays her down on her back, and himself on top of her. She feels him, heavy and warm between her legs, and  _this_  is familiar, this she understands. She rocks herself against him until he's fully hard, until his eyes darken... and he gives her a slow, sexy smile.

He begins pressing inside her. "It's a little bit like this," he says... and even though she's given birth, even though she's slick with him, his size makes her wince as he meets her body's initial resistance. "Imagine a moment of...  _discomfort_...?" he whispers.

She nods, but relaxes and opens herself to him...

"Only a moment... and then...,"

He pushes deeper... and she sighs, angles her hips, welcoming the burning stretch, the aching pressure as he groans softly above her... and soon he's as deep as he can be... he's part of her, and there's nothing but the incredible pleasure of being filled by him, the joy of absolute surrender...

"Good?" he murmurs, eyes so tender, so sincere.

She can only cling to him, every sense wildly alive...

"It's about trust, Elizabeth. It's about letting go..."

And as he begins moving slowly inside her, pain of any kind is the furthest thing from her mind...

**_To be continued..._ **


	22. Chapter 22

As submissive as he was before, that's how aggressive he's becoming now — pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, shoving the other under her ass, effortlessly lifting her to meet each deep, powerful thrust, snarling and growling as he drives her across the blanket...

If he were another man, she might suspect him of trying to reassert some kind of masculine dominance over her... but she feels deeply connected with him, completely  _seen_ , and she doesn't know how the hell he's managing it, but he seems to be worshipping and devouring her at the same time…

And she's glorying in it, in the overwhelming energy the two of them are creating together… and yes… it's perfect…  _perfect_ , just like he said. She still doesn't understand about the pain, not really, but she can't help letting go, abandoning herself to frantic urgency. She can't seem to get him close enough, deep enough, and she's bucking her hips, desperate for just a little bit more of him...

So it takes awhile to register that he's slowing down like he wants to check in... that he's looking at her forehead with a kind of startled awe...

"There's light," he says, answering her unspoken question, voice still in growl-mode. He turns his head to see where it's coming from. She follows his gaze to the streetlight slicing through a gap in the drapes.

"Wow." He looks back at her, lowers her hips to the blanket and traces a circle on her forehead with his fingertip. "I'm not given to mystical stuff like you are, but—"

"—What? Am not," she pouts, less at the statement than the interruption.

He quirks a brow. "Bring me the Big Bowl? Fire magic? Exorcizing demons? "

She winces like he caught her reading tea leaves. "Okay..."

For no reason she can see, his eyes suddenly spark with fire. "Oh, shit, you gotta kiss me," he snarls, slams his mouth onto hers, tongue rough and ravenous, leaving her breathless when he pulls away.

"Sorry, had to do that. Where was I? Oh, the light. And you were so fascinated when the light hit my chest before... what was that about?"

She can't quite keep up with all his tonal shifts, is still lost in the midst of that kiss and has to resume it, to suck his tongue into her mouth, try to roll him onto his back and take charge, but the attempt is laughable. He easily resists and presses her wrists into the floor over her head again.

"Uh-uh, not till I get my answer."

"Please, just...," she gasps.

"Just what?"

She can only whimper...

"Use your words now…,"

"Fuck me," she breathes, surprised by how easily that word, that admission, can come now.

"God, I love hearing you say that," he growls, pushing deep, making her toes curl. "Now, about the light..."

"Fine," she laugh-groans, tightening her legs around him. "The light was splashing over your heart. It was like... like—"

"—Like a sign?"

_Exactly like a sign_ , she thinks, but simply sighs. "Look, it must be this place. Usually I'm very rational—,"

"—Yes, Nurse Webber, usually you are," he says, pinching her nipple, eliciting the perfect mix of pleasure and pain... and maybe  _this_  is what he means...

She grits her teeth and constricts hard around his cock until he shudders, groans, gives her throat a playful, punishing little bite.

"So... according to you, this light that's landed on your lovely forehead is a sign. So what could it be telling me, hmmmm," he pauses, ponders. "The third eye is about perception beyond ordinary sight. But we already know that — you see things in me no one else can see. Not even me."

_Yeah, yeah, this is all very sweet and significant,_  she wants to say... but she's frustrated, bucks her hips to remind him of more important matters. "Do you  _have_  to have lengthy conversations during sex?" she half-scolds.

"Sure, if there's something to talk about."

"But you  _always_  have something to talk about."

"Do I?" He looks down at her with a cocky grin. "Okay. True. Or… maybe I love being inside you and I want it to last. It's the journey, not the destination, right?" he adds, with an obscene rock of his pelvis.

She moans, shivers... can't argue with that. She loves it, too... it's just still new to her, this bantering, this sharing of thoughts and impressions as well as bodies and emotions. This all-encompassing intimacy…

"What else is the light telling you," she says, just to hear his voice, to feel his warm breath on her skin...

" _Well_ ," he says, returning to his examination of her forehead. "If I had to guess...," he hesitates, growing serious, and seems to study the light as though it may actually contain a message for him. "I'd say it's a visible confirmation of something I've suspected all along…"

"Which is…," she urges when he doesn't continue.

He seems drawn back from far away. "That you're a beacon for me. A kind of North Star."

She blinks, startled. "A beacon...?"

"I thought you didn't want talking…"

"This seems important to you."

His face softens. "And there it is," he whispers, releases her wrists and he kisses her again… this time with lingering tenderness. He pulls back and looks down into her eyes with wonder.

"It doesn't seem like enough, Elizabeth… to just say  _I love you_ , but I do… I love you. I  _love_  you. I didn't even know what that meant before today," he says, caressing her face, thumb brushing her forehead. "But what I'm talking about is my past… the things I did, that I experienced. I was terrified that if I looked back, I'd lose my way and get lost… but I think I can go there now. I can do the work I need to do, try to make sense of everything, and find my way out again... because you're here. You cut through the dark, and you can guide me home... if you're willing..."

She takes his face in her hands, heart so filled by his trust in her that it hurts. "I am here," she says fiercely. "I am. And I won't let you get lost in the dark."

He swallows hard and lays his forehead on hers, sighing with deep relief.

"But Franco," she says quietly, reluctant, but compelled to break the moment. "You can't idealize me. I'm not light. I'm not some pure, perfect, unsullied...  _thing_..."

"I know you're not," he says. "But like I keep telling you, you're perfect for  _me_. Maybe your light shines along a wavelength only I can see, did you ever think of that... hmmm?"

She can't help but smile at his Franco-logic, but it doesn't last long… he lifts away from her... only inches, not going far, and gets serious. "God knows I'm not much, Elizabeth," he says. "More like a glow stick or a lightning bug than a beacon — but if you ever need it... I'd like to be that for you, too. If you'll let me."

She bristles with her age-old steely, solo determination to pretend everything is fine, feels her denials and deflections reflexively slam into place — the same ones that had her crying  _I can't_ … that had her silently reciting body parts in Latin… even dissolving into a panic attack to avoid the intensity of truly being with him, of depending on him, of revealing herself fully and completely…

But suddenly, all the well-oiled machinery of her self-protection simply grinds to a halt… because she realizes that she genuinely  _trusts_  this man. Not just with her body, not just with her heart... but with the grimly-defended core of herself she hasn't let anything or anyone near. Not since the night of her rape.

So many halting steps toward this moment, so many equal and opposite steps in retreat... and though it's the same thing she uttered in his apartment all those months ago...

_I knew you would never hurt me..._

She believes it now, with a bedrock certainty… and it seems that a fossilized fist is unclenching inside her, opening, reaching... reaching for his outstretched hand in the dark...

The revelation is so profound she can't speak, can only bite her lip and nod...

"When you're ready," he whispers, thumbs stroking the warm tears sliding down her temples.

She inhales, filling her lungs with fresh clean air that refreshes and revives her...

"Okay...," he says… so bright, eager, full of humor. "Ready now…?"

She laughs like the sun has risen after a winter of night. "No, not yet, but soon! You have to be a little patient."

"Not my strong suit," he fake sulks.

She laughs again, and the movement sinks her into a full awareness of her body. She feels him everywhere — hot, sensual and so incredibly potent. "I wouldn't say that," she purrs, rolling her hips.

He slides strong arms around her, cocooning her, and kisses her so thoroughly she's left gasping.

"It's weird," he murmurs against her lips. "I'm excited about this, for both of us. Bringing our ratty old boxes out of the attic, so to speak. All the stuff we locked away, left to rot, never properly mourned... it's all still with us, right? Angry little demons keeping us stuck, screwing up the present. It's kind of sad, actually. Maybe our demons are lonely. Maybe they just need a little attention..."

She runs her fingers through his long, silky hair, loving him with every fiber of her being. "My beautiful, compassionate philosopher," she murmurs. "Room in your heart even for demons..."

"Well, everybody needs love, right?" His eyes slowly move over her face… and he begins to rock inside her, finally, finally…

But he pauses, eyes on her cheek, brow furrowing. "Hmmm, you are an endless source of fascination, Nurse Webber."

_Now what?!…_

She almost wails it, assumes he's delaying again, being his odd, teasing, poetic self… but it suddenly hits her that he's looking at her cheek — more specifically at the mark she'd stolen from his soot-stained hand earlier. With a flash of pain, she remembers it all — the violent sadism he'd confessed to... her reflexive horror at the monster he'd once been… how close they'd come to losing everything...

_Imagine someone with no empathy. No impulse control. No moral compass._ _Outfit him with equipment meant to—_

She shudders, angry that the memories have intruded on this moment, begins to shove them far, far away... but he's right —

_It's all still with us... keeping us stuck…_

She grits her teeth, takes a chance and just lets the horrific images come, burst vividly to life one by one in her mind... move through her unimpeded... then fade away like a gusts of cold wind. Just harmless images, with no inherent force but what she gives them. She breathes deeply, relaxes, feels his weight on top of her, the blanket beneath, the cool surrounding dimness... all is safe, all is good...

_There will always be more…_ he'd said _…_

And when it arises, she knows, they will face it, deal with it… all of it. Together.

He's still looking at the mark on her cheek, starts to speak, but she gently circumvents his question with one of her own.

"Speaking of mystical," she says with a new resolve. "That charcoal mark you made on my face when I was last here… do you remember?"

He ghosts his finger over her cheek, tracing but not touching. "Charcoal… and tears. Yes. I remember."

"What was that about, Franco?"

He blinks, clears his throat. "It was an impulse," he says, voice husky. "You were never quite…  _with_  me, not a hundred percent. I guess it was a symbolic way of anchoring you here… of binding you to me. Obviously there was no real power in it." His eyes darken and he looks away from the mark, shakes his head. "Still, it was incredibly presumptuous."

"No, no, I felt it... the connection," she says, the raw, primal ache of it reigniting inside her. "The feeling of belonging to you. I liked it."

That seems to get him. He makes a low sound in his throat, pushes deeper inside her... but stops with a frown.

"Until you didn't like it... remember?"

She does, with a rush of regret. She remembers standing in front of him, wiping off the mark in a stark rejection of him and everything that had begun between them...

_I can't be this person... I can't be with you..._

How terrifying it had seemed then, to be out of control in any way… to even consider saying  _yes_  to him, to  _this_...

"I do remember...,"

He taps the fresh mark on her cheek. "So what's this... where did it come from?"

She recalls the look of ecstasy on his face, the one she's begun to understand. "You were holding your hand over the candle flame. You were hurting yourself."

"Yes." His voice roughens. "Go on."

"It left soot on your palm… so I used it to mark myself."

"Why," he says, barely above a whisper. "Why would you do that."

She knows he knows the answer, but he wants to hear her say it... so she does, with all the passion and naked honesty she can muster:

"Because I love you…. and we were losing each other. I needed to belong to you again."

His eyes flash with a hunger that sends tremors through her body.

"There you go," he growls. "Transforming something ugly into something beautiful. How the hell do you do that?"

Before she can speak, he covers her mouth with his and kisses her deeply, almost desperately. She feels him take her hand and she lets him guide it into the shadows a few feet away, stretching her arm, until she feels the roughness of the stone bowl. He bends her wrist and presses her fingers into the cool silken ash — into the remains of her loving portrait of him, of his monstrous self-portrait, of all the sad, lonely, vicious demons they never had a prayer of banishing…

He finally breaks the kiss and looks down at her. His eyes are hot and black as he slowly nods, lets go of her hand...

And she understands. She moves her fingers to his cheek — one week ago, those same fingers were covered with charcoal, moving furiously over a piece of paper, chasing the beautiful, elusive essence of him…

But now the real thing is right here — loving her, accepting her, available to her in every way. Just as she is for him. She presses, draws her fingers down to the hollow of his cheek and into rough, late-day stubble. She pulls her hand away and looks at his face, at the dark line she made... watches his eyelids flutter, the glint of white teeth as his lips part in a silent gasp, his body caught in a spasm of pleasure…

And she's so moved she does it again, with intention… pressing her fingers hard into his cheek, feeling the heat and texture of his skin, the contours of flesh and bone… claiming him, binding him to her...

"Mine," she tells him… and means it.

He opens his eyes, glittering onyx locking into hers. " _Yours_ ," he says. "For as long as you want me."

His voice is thick with emotion, as though he's responding to a call he's been waiting for all his life. He grabs her hair with both hands and kisses her hard, rolls his tongue into her mouth as he drives inside her… and she's filled by him, overflowing with him, penetrated to her soul. She enfolds him with her body and lays herself open to him at the same time, taking and receiving with a silent soaring explosion of  _yes_... to whatever comes — chaotic love, blinding revelations, erotic fear, ecstatic art...

Yes yes yes and yes.

As long as it's with  _him_.

He pulls away breathlessly and drops his brow to hers…

"Say you'll meet me here, once a week."

She's startled, remembers how outrageous and fantastical the proposition had seemed before, but how obvious and necessary it is now — to privately nurture this newly born miracle between them, before exposing it to the glare of the world…

"Yes," she says. "I will. I'll meet you here… in this weird, magical place…"

He traces the mark on her own cheek as though reinforcing it, deepening it, making it his. "Where we belong to each other. Where it's safe, and we can be free..."

"Free to explore and create." She's exhilarated by the possibilities, by the power and the promise surrounding them, lifting them...

"Create new portraits," he says with a gentle smile.

She finds the red marks she made on his throat in another sort of claiming. "And we don't have to be afraid of darkness or getting lost, because we'll always find our way back to each other..."

"Always," he breathes, lifting his chin for her, and she brushes her lips over each mark in turn, feels his quickening pulse, his heat as he moves inside her…

And he laughs then... freely, joyfully, and she joins him as they cling to each other, rock together… their laughter slowly turning to sighs and moans... tenderness turning at last to trembling urgency... the two of them merging until she can't tell where she ends and he begins…

And through it all rises her soft and certain…

_Yes_.

**_\- The End -_ **


End file.
